Tea, Coffee, and Love
by bobness
Summary: A collection of USUK stories from LJ's Summer Camp and Summer Olympics. Rated T for heavy language and/or sexual situations. Updated daily.
1. I Am a Pirate

**Genre: Fluff**

**Rating: G  
**

**Summary: Arthur meets a very imaginative boy playing by his favorite tree.  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.  
**

* * *

Arthur first met him by a large tree. He had a habit of coming to the tree every day, at least for a few minutes, to relax after enduring teasing and bullying from his elder brothers.

And now it was taken over by some American kid.

"Gotcha!" the American shouted, holding a stick in his hands. "Ha, you will never defeat Pirate Alfred F. Jones!"

The word 'pirate' certainly caught Arthur's attention. He had quite a fondness for them after his mother told him his great-great-great-great-great-whatever was one. He had started checking out every book on pirates that he possibly could, always proud to tell his classmates just how exactly his great-great-great-great-great-whatever lived. Sure, it wasn't exactly honest work, but what child could deny the love of adventure that pirates seemed to always possess? Therefore, Arthur considered himself an expert on all things 'pirate'.

Alfred was certainly no pirate. He wasn't even doing it correctly.

"That's wrong," he exclaimed, his voice sounding refined and quiet compared to Alfred's, as he learned the boy's name was (when he continuously yelled it out like that, it was safe to assume that his name was Alfred). Ignoring Alfred's surprised glance, Arthur stepped closer. "They had swords, not sticks. And guns."

Snorting, Alfred replied, "Duh, I'm not stupid! Mommy just says I can't have a real sword. _Or_ a gun." He stuck his out his lower lip. "But I'm still the best pirate ever! I'm a hero to everyone!"

Arthur blinked. "Pirates weren't heroes," he said, remembering what his books had told him. "They plundered and stole and did other horrible things."

"I'm a good pirate," Alfred quickly corrected, a smug smirk forming across his childish face, still round with baby fat. "I help people and save the day. So I'm a new kinda pirate." He placed a hand on each hip. "What's your name, anyway?"

Eying him suspiciously, Arthur muttered, "A-Arthur Kirkland. And you're Alfred."

The American kid looked shocked. "Hey, you're a mind-reader!" he cried. "Dude, that's awesome! Can you teach me how to read minds? Please? I've always wanted-"

"You said your name when you were fighting." Arthur sighed. "Never mind. I...I was just coming here to relax for a little bit. Can I have my tree back?"

"Tree? What tree?" Forgetting all about the mind reading, Alfred glanced around. "I don't see a tree around here."

"B-But it's right behi-"

Laughing, Alfred smacked the tree and Arthur winced. "This is my ship!"

Wondering if the fairies living in the tree were alright from Alfred's insensitive behavior, Arthur frowned. "It's a tree."

"No, you're wrong! This is my ship! And you're not allowed on here!" Alfred took a spot on one of the giant roots protruding from the ground and brandished his stick, waving it wildly at Arthur's face. "Leave, you evil pirate! Or I shall be forced to...to kill you!"

Arthur glanced at the tree. "But this is my tree," he said. "And, like I've already told you, it isn't a ship. It's a tree."

Alfred huffed. "You're boring," he commented, stepping down. "Gee, how do you have any fun?" He grabbed Arthur's hand, ignoring the protests coming from the other boy. "See, all you gotta do is pretend this is a boat, and we can be pirates. I'll even let you be my second-in-command if you pretend hard enough!" Noticing Arthur's hesitation, Alfred tugged at his arm. "Please?" he begged. "No one else will play with me. Mattie is in Canada with our daddy and Mommy says she doesn't have any time. Plus, the other kids in this neighborhood ignore me and tease me about how I talk!"

"What's wrong with how you talk?" Arthur asked, curious. He couldn't tell anything different from the way most people he knew talked, save for the accent.

Alfred shrugged, not really seeming too upset. "I dunno. They just say I'm stupid 'cause I must be American." However, rather than looking depressed (as Arthur figured he would have), the kid just grinned. "But America is the bestest land in the whole world! We're not stupid there!"

"Oh." Arthur wasn't sure how to reply to that. He had never seen anyone so patriotic. His parents always told him Americans were over-the-top, though. And now he was finally able to see it for himself.

Why were parents always right?

"You don't see anything wrong with the way I talk, do ya?" Alfred asked, still holding onto Arthur's hands.

Blushing slightly, Arthur replied, "W-Well, not really. It just happens to be an American accent, that's all. I don't think you're stupid."

"Aw, thanks, Arthur!" Alfred exclaimed. "Now, wanna play pirates with me?"

Having never really played with another child in such a way, Arthur bit at his lip nervously. "Um, I'm not really sure. I was going to talk to some of my fairy friends before heading back home."

"Fairy friends?" Alfred's eyes widened. "Fairies?"

Arthur nodded. "Yes. They live in these trees."

"They do?" Alfred squealed, putting an ear to the immense trunk. "I can't hear them, Artie!"

Wondering when in the world he had acquired such a nickname, Arthur responded, "They don't normally come out for other people. I tried letting them meet my brothers once, but they hid then, too. I don't think they trust other people all too well." Arthur watched as Alfred pulled himself from the tree, pouting.

"Aw, I wanted to talk to your fairies. We could have played Pirates vs Fairies." Shrugging, he continued, "Now we can just play pirates. And I can be your teacher!" Alfred puffed his chest out, looking proud to be able to teach Arthur something. "First, you need a stick as your sword! We're just pretending in this game, remember." Arthur sighed, realizing he wasn't going to get out of this, and grabbed a random stick from the ground. "Good!" Alfred exclaimed, giving satisfied nod. "Now you just have to put on a pirate accent!"

Arthur glanced at his stick. "I don't think pirates had accents, Alfr-"

"Argh, matey!" Alfred snarled, his face screwing up in order to look more ferocious. "You should be talkin' better, matey! Argh!"

Not quite prepared to tell him that his 'accent' was probably ridiculous, Arthur gave a small smile. It wouldn't hurt to pretend for a while, would it? Besides, he always enjoyed using his imagination. Despite how often his parents and siblings told him to use logic and think rationally, he very much preferred imaging scenarios and plots and the likes. Perhaps acting out his dreams would be fun after all.

Besides that, Alfred seemed like a nice friend to have.


	2. Exploring Emotions

**Genre: Humor/Romance**

**Rating: PG- Slight language  
**

**Summary: Alfred F. Jones really hates working with Arthur Kirkland, for many reasons.  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.  
**

* * *

"Bad news, Artie."

"It's Arthur. And _for the love of Christ_, Jones, it had better not be another hornet nest." Arthur glared at his companion, panting just a tad and looking very much out of breath.

Alfred shook his head. "No, no, I think we'd be fine it _was_ another hornet nest. I mean, at least we wouldn't be as lost as we are now." He scratched his blond hair, looking curiously around the forest they were currently resting in. "Strange. I could have _sworn_ that there was-"

Arthur groaned. "You've got to be bloody messing with me, Jones!" Standing up, he made his way over to Alfred and glanced down at the map in his hands. "Please don't tell me you're-"

"We're nowhere on this map." Alfred sighed. "See, I've been around this entire area that's covered on the map, and I don't recognize a single thing here. I can only assume we went off course when you stepped in that hornet nest and-"

"You _pushed me_ into the nest, you twat," Arthur snapped, hitting his companion's shoulder. "And then we both had to run, and now look!" He spread his arms out, gesturing around them. "We're lost!"

"As I said." Alfred closed the map. "Well, our best hope is to keep walking one way and see where we end up."

"Beautiful strategy." Arthur's arms were crossed over his chest and his eyebrows were so furrowed that Alfred could have sworn they were about to merge together. "Honestly, such a well-thought out plan. Tell me, Professor Jones, which way exactly are we going to be walking? Oh, and perhaps it would do you best not to push anymore of your companions into hornet nests, you hear? Those things do tend to get us lost, as shown in this perfect example."

Alfred rolled his eyes. He hated having been paired with Arthur for this job. And there were so many reasons why. The first was that his irritability was far too great for even Alfred to handle with a smile. Mr. Grumpy-Pants always seemed to put a dent in his usually cheerful mood. It was as if they were destined to be enemies. "Dude, I could deal without your sarcasm right now," he muttered. "Sorry I pushed you, but what's done is done and I can't go back in time and change it or something. I didn't even _know _there'd be hornets there."

"Explorers don't tend to push their fellow explorers in the first place," Arthur growled back. "I've always told the others that you're not very good at what you do, but they never seem to-"

"Shush." Alfred sent him a glare. "If I wasn't any good, they would have cut me from the team long ago." He rubbed at his nose. "Listen. We can either sit here and bicker like children until help comes, or we can do what explorers are meant to do and explore the area."

Arthur snorted. "I would gladly choose whichever if it meant less of you. A giant cat could come out of the trees and gobble you up for all I care."

Alfred raised his eyebrows. "Exploring it is," he mumbled. "C'mon, cheer up. We're gonna go do what we were made to do and explore this new territory." He took a sip from one of the many water bottles he was carrying in his backpack. "And then we'll find, like, some new lands or something and totally be the heroes of our exploring team!"

"If we're the heroes, it'll be because of me," Arthur stated, following Alfred down the path with the least amount of thorns.

"What? Why you? You're so rude and mean and standoffish all the time. No one will exalt _you_ as the hero!"

Arthur laughed. "Yes, but I'm also the good-looking chap with a British accent," he replied. "And we _all_ know how bloody attractive Americans seem to find my accent."

Alfred flushed. "Neither here nor now, dude."

"Oh? But we're lost and we're exploring. And you said you didn't want to bicker. I'm merely trying to strike up an interesting conversation for us to have." He sighed dramatically, nearly rivaling the sighs of Francis, one of the more flamboyant members on their team of explorers. "But, suit yourself. Perhaps I'll simply put on an American accent."

"What's your problem?"

"Ah, ah, ah!" Arthur sounded positively gleeful now. Alfred forgot how bipolar the Brit could be sometimes. Which was the second reason Alfred couldn't stand working with him. "The question is actually what is _your_ problem?"

"_My_ problem?" Alfred angrily pushed away a branch. Boy, Arthur sure knew how to rub his skin the wrong way.

"Yes, _your_ problem."

Getting fed up with Arthur's silly tone of 'I know something you don't', Alfred snapped, "Oh, and what is _my_ problem?"

Arthur hummed happily. "Your problem is that you seem to be quite infatuated with me, yet you never give any indication that you wish to act on your feelings."

Alfred tripped, a bush the only thing saving him from a nasty fall. "M-My feelings?" he stammered, feeling his face heat up even more so. "That's stupid, I don't have any feelings."

"I beg to differ." Arthur snickered as Alfred straightened himself up. The younger of the two noted that this was probably one of the first times he had ever seen Arthur so joyful about something. And it was at _his_ expense. That man had problems. Which was why this whole conversation was being discussed in the first place, so Alfred certainly had no desire to mention the word 'problems' to such a very unstable guy ever again. "You really can't look me in the eye and tell me that all those stolen glances you gave when you thought no one was looking doesn't have anything to do with your _feelings_."

"I so can."

"It would be a lie if you did." Arthur raised a bushy eyebrow. "Come off it, Jones. Why can't you just admit it?"

Because rejection. Because humiliation. Because he had never thought about it before. He had always assumed Arthur probably had some sort of significant other. The guy was quite a catch and Alfred refused to believe that he didn't have some sort of commitment to someone else.

"I think I recognize this place," Alfred exclaimed rather than answering the question posed to him. At this point, he would rather eat Francis' snails than give Arthur an honest response.

The Briton frowned, a bad mood coming on once again. "Oh, really?" he asked. "Quite lovely. But you're avoiding my question." When Alfred _still_ gave no sign that he was ready to face Arthur's inquiry, the smaller man grabbed the back of his shirt and spun him around. "Jones, I shall give you one more chance to give me a decent answer, righto? And I believe I am a good judge of whether or not a person is lying, so if you think you can somehow wriggle your way out of this one, think again."

Alfred's mouth opened and closed, unable to form any coherent words to say at the moment. A fine, pink blush was spreading across his face, tinting his cheeks and painting his ears with it's color. But then he noticed the strange glint in Arthur's eyes and realized something.

He knew the answer.

Arthur knew just what exactly Alfred was going to say. To _truthfully_ say. "You know."

"Very observant, Jones."

"If you already know the answer, then why do you keep asking me?"

With a smirk, Arthur released Alfred. "I wanted to hear it for myself. I wanted you to prove to me that you really aren't as great of a coward as I thought you to be all these years."

"Coward?" Alfred scoffed. "Dude, I'm one of the best explorers on our team! I can face snakes, crocodiles, wild cats, bears, wolves-"

"Yes, yes, and that's all just fine and dandy, but you're still a coward." Arthur smiled this time, a true, warm, lovely smile. "You can run straight into a fight with some dangerous creature, but when it comes to accepting your feelings, Jones, you're the bloodiest coward of them all." And then he reached forward and kissed Alfred's lips, captured them in his own, and Alfred, oh, poor Alfred, flailed his arms about for a few seconds before realizing that...well..._Arthur Kirkland was kissing him._

So he kissed right back. If he tried pushing away, he most certainly _would_ be a coward. This was simply to prove that he was a brave man...

Oh, what he was thinking? He kissed back for a reason. Because who was he to keep denying his own feelings?

Which was actually the last and final reason Alfred hated working with Arthur.

He was deeply, madly, painfully in love with him.


	3. Our Sort of Love

**Genre: Fluff/Romance**

**Pairings: USUK (duh), France/fem!Canada  
**

**Rating: PG  
**

**Summary: Alfred isn't really dying to enter into a relationship, but Arthur really is something special.  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

When Alfred was fifteen, his elder sister, Madeline, finally allowed the rest of her family to meet her boyfriend, Francis.

Alfred made a mental note to hate the man. After all, Maddie used to do _everything_ with him. They were inseparable, their parents always said, almost twins. Despite the distinct difference in their personalities, there couldn't have been a more closer pair of siblings.

And then Francis came along and ruined everything.

Friday nights, which were usually spent playing video games together, were taken up by Mr. Snob's dates, which Maddie would always gleefully attend. Saturday afternoons, which were usually spent walking near creeks or climbing hills together, were taken up by Mr. Snob's phone calls. Even weekdays after school, which were usually spent studying together, were taken up by Mr. Snob's inability to ever do anything without his girlfriend.

So Alfred wanted to hate him. He truly did. However, Francis was hard to hate. He was funny, polite, and very much in love with Madeline. Alfred sat glumly at the table as he watched Francis sweep the entire family off their feet, Alfred included in that. How could anyone hate such a charming man? It sucked, but Alfred liked him.

After dinner, Madeline stood and gave Francis' shoulder a pat. "Why don't you, uh, spend some time with my brother?" she asked in that quiet little voice of hers.

"Of course, darling," Francis responded, flashing her a sweet grin. Madeline blushed and quickly excused herself from the room, presumably to help her parents finish cleaning the dishes.

Francis' first question really came as no surprise to Alfred. "So, Alfred, are you currently in a relationship?"

Alfred shook his head. "Nah," he replied. "I was cool hanging out with my sis for a while. I don't need some girlfriend or something to make me happier."

"Really? Well, what about now? I know I spend a good amount of time with Madeline. Are you lonely?"

Shrugging a bit, Alfred responded, "Maybe a little. 'Course, I have a bunch of awesome friends to chill with, so it doesn't really matter to me all that much." He grinned. "Don't worry! I'm good all by myself."

But later that night, when everyone was supposed to be asleep, Alfred had popped into Madeline's room for a quick visit. Used to Alfred's midnight conversations, Madeline was awake in a minute and seemed ready to listen to whatever it was Alfred had to say.

"Maddie, what's it like to date someone?" he asked quietly, making sure he didn't wake their parents. "Like, why are you so happy going on dates?"

Madeline smiled softly. "We haven't discussed anything this serious for a while, now, have we?" She made herself more comfortable in her bed, stretching her legs out and playing with a strand of her blond hair. "Well...Francis makes me feel so much better about myself. He loves me no matter what, and it's just so great to have that." She looked a bit shy as she grabbed her glasses and pushed them up the bridge of her nose. "I feel like, if he was taken from me, he would leave with pieces of my heart. I just love him so much, so every minute we spend together is precious."

Alfred sighed. "Couldn't you guys just be friends or something?" he asked. "Like, wouldn't you feel the same way about him then?"

The older girl giggled. "Love doesn't work that way. You see, I like being his girlfriend. I like being able to hold hands or let him hug or kiss me." Even in the dark, Alfred could tell she was blushing. He knew his sister all too well. "You'll understand one day."

But the years went by, and Alfred still didn't understand. He did start to date, but nothing ever went further than a quick lunch and an, "I don't think you're right for me, sorry." He moved out, started his own life, and still had no desire to ever settle down as his sister had done with Francis.

"I have a few friends that are also looking for a significant other," said Frenchman told him one day as Alfred went about cooking dinner.

"I told you, Francis, I'm not really interested in that sort of thing," Alfred replied, feeling as though he'd explained himself fifty times before. "I dunno, dating just isn't...it isn't enjoyable for me. Sure, some of the people I dated are fun and I like them, yeah, but...I don't _like_ them. I don't wanna do anything more with them than a simple handshake or a high-five."

Francis sighed, taking a sip of the wine Alfred had offered him. "Maybe you just need to keep trying. Have you branched out any?"

"Branched out?"

"I mean, have you dated guys _and_ girls, or just guys?"

Alfred blinked. "Well, I tried out two guys before. We went for coffee and they seemed interested, but I just wasn't. I thought that maybe I was gay, since none of the women were clicking, but I'm not, like, liking any guys I see, either." He gave a small laugh. "I guess I'll be the crazy old cat man for the rest of my life!"

Francis smirked. "You only have two cats, so that lifestyle is invalid."

"I'll adopt more."

"Now, Alfred, your sister is worried about you." Francis stood, setting his wine on the table. "I know this doesn't seem to bother you any, but she wants you to have a fulfilling relationship and she's-"

Alfred groaned. "She's hired you to get me to go on more dates, yeah, I know." He knew his sister far better than he should. "I'm not interested in dating anyone else, though."

"Too bad." Francis looked devious. "I already have you lined up for one tomorrow. Eleven in the morning. You'll be meeting Arthur Kirkland at the tea shop down the street." He flipped open his phone. "Arthur is a very good friend of mine, and he has absolutely no luck in relationships. Poor man has tried countless times, but his attitude just isn't suited for people who wish for a romantic partner. Therefore, I figured you two might be perfect together."

Taking his dinner out from the oven, Alfred raised his eyebrows, all too used to Francis sending him off on blind dates. "The tea shop? Seriously? Guy must be a stingy old man if he likes going there."

Even though Alfred refused to so much as touch any sort of tea they were selling, he still showed up on time, dressed in a simple blue button-up shirt and a pair of nice slacks. He found Arthur Kirkland rather quickly- Francis told him to look out for bushy eyebrows. "Howdy!" he exclaimed, taking a seat across from the smaller man. "I'm Alfred Jones. You're Arthur, right?"

Arthur blinked. "Well, yes, I am. Pleased to meet you, Alfred." He extended a hand, which Alfred shook, and then the two sat in an uncomfortable silence, both unsure of what to say. Arthur broke it, though he seemed more than a bit flustered. "W-Well, Francis told me you never really had a relationship before and you didn't seem like a romantic sort of guy, so...I figured I'd take the offer for a date."

"Yeah, the offer that Francis set me up to." Alfred snorted. "Ah, but I'm glad you did. I always like meeting new people!" He grinned. "And if this doesn't work out, we can still be friends, right?"

"Of course," Arthur replied quickly, nodding his head. "Yes. I would like to continue being friends." He sipped at the tea from the cup in front of him, then noticed Alfred had yet to get something. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Would you like me to order for you?"

"Nah, don't worry about it." Alfred waved his hand. "I'm not too thirsty right now. Maybe later." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "So, uh...favorite movies?"

Arthur put the teacup down. "Pardon?"

Leaning back in his seat, Alfred shrugged. "I dunno, I always ask my dates about their favorite movies. It's a good conversation starter."

"Oh." Arthur nodded, knowing that made perfect sense. "Well, let's see..."

* * *

"Told ya it was a good conversation starter," Alfred said. Months had passed since their first date, and now Alfred considered them to be in what Francis might call a 'relationship'. "See, if I hadn't had asked your favorite movie, our Potter nerd-ism might have never been discovered and, without that, we would have gone our separate ways."

Arthur rolled his emerald eyes. "You're over-dramatic," he said. "Quite like a certain frog we both know."

"King isn't over-dramatic," Alfred shot back. "I mean, sure, he does croak loudly when he's hungry- which is always, awesome frog- but he's just a frog, so how-"

"I meant Francis, you dolt." Arthur chuckled. "Why would I be referring to your pet frog?"

Alfred shrugged. "I dunno. You say frog, though, I don't instantly think of Francis. I think of King." He sipped at his milkshake, giving Arthur a warm smile. "But, yeah, I'm over-dramatic. Still, though, aren't ya glad we met? Before you, I wouldn't even ever _think_ of hugging someone else. I thought I was destined to be alone forever."

"Mm, but I would never have allowed that." Arthur poked at his salad, wondering if vegetables from fast food restaurants were safe to consume. "I like you far too much to let you wallow around the world all by yourself. No, you need someone to keep you from being an idiot."

It was quiet for a few minutes, which slightly worried Arthur. He glanced up. "Is everything all right?"

"Yeah. Just wondering...you don't mind us being like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like..." Alfred struggled to find a word to describe them. "Like _this_? Like how our relationship is. I mean, back when Maddie was first dating Francis, she always told me how special their kisses were, and every other date I ever had always seemed interested in physical contact, but...I'm not..."

He trailed off and didn't notice Arthur's amused gaze. "Love, if I wasn't perfectly fine with this, one hundred percent fine with this, I would have told you so." He reached over and gave Alfred's hand a pat. "Not everyone needs a kiss to know they have their true love by their side."

Alfred looked up, a bit sheepish. "You sure?"

"Positive." Arthur finally decided that the salad was safe enough (rather, his stomach continued to rumble) and started to eat it. "If you ever have any need to kiss me, I'll kiss back. If you never wish to kiss me, but you want to stay together forever, I'll gladly do so." He took his hand off of Alfred's and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Love is an emotion, not some sort of physical feeling. I can love you just fine without having to show it through kisses or...or whatever else."

Alfred bit his lip, smiling all the while. "How the hell did I get so lucky?"

Arthur swallowed some of the lettuce he was chewing on, realizing that the salad actually wasn't all that bad. "Well, it started when you asked what my favorite movies were," he pointed out intelligently. "And then, as you _always_ tell me, fate and Harry Potter did the rest."

"Ah, Harry Potter is a matchmaker." Alfred went back to his milkshake, slurping away. "A pretty darn good matchmaker, too." He finished his milkshake, then looked sadly over at Arthur's. "You gonna drink that?"

Arthur sighed. Trust Alfred to ask that sort of question when they were discussing love. "No. Go ahead."

The taller man grinned and grabbed the cup, beginning to drink that one, as well. "See, like I said, Potter knows what he's doing."


	4. Just One Kiss

**Genre: Humor/Romance**

**Rating: T- Language and random snogging  
**

**Summary: Although the game is stupid, Arthur is willing to participate in 'Spin the Bottle' if it means he can kiss wonderboy-Alfred.  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

All Arthur Kirkland ever wanted was a kiss from Alfred F. Jones.

Just one kiss was all, to see if he could taste the beginnings of true love on the younger boy's lips.

It was silly, actually, for a senior such as himself longing to make out with a freshman. Granted, a very handsome and popular freshman, but a freshman nonetheless. He couldn't help his feelings, though. He couldn't help how dry his mouth got or how sweaty his hands became whenever he so much as spotted a _glimpse_ of Alfred from down the hall.

But he _really_ wanted that kiss. And he made up his mind to do everything he could to steal that kiss from such a wonderful human specimen.

He had learned from Francis that Alfred attended all the parties. And that he participated in that highly childish game 'Spin the Bottle'. Arthur scoffed at that. Such beautiful lips like Alfred's weren't fit for those dolts that he played with! No, Arthur would have to save him the pain of kissing someone else.

Of course, that didn't go quite as planned. It was Arthur's turn and he spun the bottle, wetting his lips and stealing a few glances up at Alfred, who was cheering along with the rest of the crowd. Almost there, almost there, almost- oh.

Francis looked up as the bottle pointed straight to him. "Well, isn't this just a surprise?" he exclaimed. Arthur gritted his teeth and was nearly about to call it quits when Alfred pushed Francis to the Briton. And Arthur got a mouthful of French. Tongue and all. Quite disturbing, really, considering Francis was nothing more than a frog and _did he really have no control over where his hands bloody landed?_

Needless to say, after that terrifying experience was done with, Arthur had a right mind to leave the party. Of course, then Francis spun and landed on Gilbert, who landed on Antonio, who landed on Alfred. Arthur's face turned red as the crowd whistled and cheered and the two boys edged closer together and...

Antonio kissed Alfred. And Alfred kissed back, looking amused all the while.

Arthur felt his stomach churn.

When they pulled back, Alfred was laughing and Antonio was patting his back, exclaiming what a good kisser he was. Arthur was jealous. If Alfred was such a great kisser, there was more than enough to go around, wasn't there? Why couldn't Alfred kiss _him_? Why must Arthur have to sit and be forced to watch as the love of his life exchanged saliva with boys who clearly weren't good enough for him? Ugh, this game was hideous.

But Arthur still didn't leave. Alfred was spinning, after all. And the bottle spun and Arthur's mind went blank when he saw that it nearly landed on him. _Nearly_, however, was the keyword. It landed on the person beside him.

Fuck Natalia and her ability to make Alfred blush and grin like a fool after they were finished kissing.

The game continued to play, multiple people kissing other people, and Arthur getting chosen twice more- once for Lovino (ever tried kissing an angry cat?) and once for Ludwig (ever tried kissing a rock?). He was in complete despair by the time the game finished. People began talking and laughing, spreading out, and some even went home. Alfred himself turned on the television and started talking to the other jocks who weren't nearly fit to be called Alfred's friends. They weren't even worthy of being close to him.

Ah, but Arthur himself couldn't get close to Alfred for five seconds, now, could he? In despair, he turned to leave, but a hand at his shoulder stopped him.

Francis. Again. Lovely.

"Where are you going, Arthur?" the Frenchman asked, his eyebrows raised at Arthur's forlorn expression.

"Home," Arthur snapped, shrugging Francis' hand off of him. "This place is boring, and that game wasn't nearly as fun as everyone made it out to be. Besides that, I need to scrub my mouth from your nasty frog germs before I die."

"That's not nice." Francis clicked his tongue, then looked deep into Arthur's eyes (and Arthur always hated that expression, since it was so cliched and ridiculous, but Francis honestly had a knack for looking deep into the eyes of other people). "Could this be a case of unrequited love?" he asked softly, bringing himself closer to Arthur.

Arthur backed up. "N-No!" he stammered. "It's not like that at all!"

Francis continued coming closer. "I noticed you were staring at young Alfred practically all night," he murmured, his voice somehow audible even over the roar of the young teenagers around the house.

There was a wall in the way and Arthur was unable to back up any farther. "I-I...of course-"

"I'll help you win his heart," Francis said, looking quite cheeky (which was never a good sign). And then he leaned in and kissed Arthur and made sure he had a tight hold of the Briton's wrists.

Arthur struggled, trying to get away from the stupid frog and his stupid froggy mouth and his stupid froggy grip (was that even possible to have a froggy grip?), but Francis was stronger than he was and Arthur was caught off guard and _this was the most humiliating experience of his life_.

Especially when, through his opened eyes, he saw Alfred watching. _Oh, dear Lord, please kill me now!_ His heart hammered when Alfred actually started walking towards them, and it was nearly ready to tear from his chest when Alfred poked Francis' shoulder.

Francis drew back, looking polite and still quite cheeky. "_Oui?_"

Alfred grinned and Arthur's heart stopped (which was better, considering how close it was from leaving his body). Such a marvelous grin. Oh, how could he do that grin for anyone else? Why couldn't Arthur just keep it all to himself? "Dude, it kinda looked like you were molesting poor Artie here."

_He knows my name!_ Arthur thought, his chest puffing out and his cheeks burning bright red. Okay, sure, it was some nickname, but at least it was still correct!

The Frenchman smiled. "Oh, I wasn't aware he didn't like _my_ kisses. Deeply sorry, Arthur." He winked, then disappeared in the crowd, and Arthur found himself alone with the man of his dreams.

His heart started beating again.

"You okay, man?" Alfred patted his shoulder, and Arthur wanted to die. He touched him! Alfred fucking Jones touched _him!_

"Y-Y-Yes, quite a-alright," Arthur stammered, trying not to scream out his joy. "Th-Thanks for, er, rescuing me."

"No problem." Alfred rolled his eyes. "Francis kisses a lot of people and you don't seem like a guy who really likes kissing all that much, what with the way you were playing that game a lil' bit ago and stuff."

Arthur blinked. Alfred was watching him? He wasn't sure whether to be embarrassed or pleased. "Oh."

And he didn't mean to say the next sentence. It was supposed to be a thought, but his mouth decided to steal that thought and let the entire world know his secret. Or, rather, just Alfred, but Alfred _was_ the entire world in Arthur's mind. "I only played that game so I could kiss you."

Alfred's gorgeous sky-blue eyes widened a bit in shock and Arthur quickly slapped his hands over his mouth.

No.

No, no, _nononono_, this was not good. Not at all. He knew he was probably as red as one could get. He wanted to die. Not from happiness now. No, he was so humiliated and why couldn't lightning just come down and strike him, or a boulder come out of nowhere and crush him or-

Then Alfred chuckled and gently removed Arthur's hands. "Well, since we didn't get to kiss at the game," he said. "We could kiss now." And Arthur found it too good to believe, but Alfred leaned in and they kissed.

Arthur tasted true love.

And, though he didn't know it at that moment, Alfred did as well.


	5. Healing the Wounds

**Genre: Historical/Drama  
**

**Rating: PG  
**

**Summary: After the Revolutionary War, England doesn't know what to feel for America anymore.  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

England hated America after the Revolutionary War. Honestly, how could he bring himself to _like_ his ex-brother? It was impossible to still be friends with the boy who wriggled his way into his heart before viciously tearing it out of his chest.

No. On that fateful day, when America yelled how he was independent and England just broke and fell in the mud...on that fateful day, he made it a point to never like America again. _Ever_. They obviously weren't made for each other. Not as brothers or friends or anything else. Maybe at one point in his life, England had thought that they'd be together forever. But how could they? America, though he was a colony, grew up like any other boy would. He grew up and turned into quite the rebellious teenager and England found that they weren't for each other like he had originally thought.

He had finally arrived back in his own rainy country, tired, wet, and completely heartbroken. He wanted to curl up in a ball and just die. He wanted to _die_, the pain was horrible and he didn't want to do this anymore. He didn't want to continue living in a world where America was the victor, where America was a hero, where America was free, where America bloody hated him.

And he had fallen into his bed and he had curled up in a ball, but he didn't die. He was a country. Countries couldn't die that easily.

But countries could sob. And that's exactly what he did. He buried his face into his pillow, sobbing and screaming out his anguish.

He thought that maybe time could heal his wounds. Not his physical wounds- no, those were healed in a few days. They weren't ever anything serious.

He wanted those emotional wounds to be cast out.

He steeled his heart. He became just as cold and cruel as he once was, if not more so. He didn't want anyone else to somehow find his good side. They would simply toss it away, as America had done with him, and then what would he be?

A broken mess. Again.

England wanted to show the world that you didn't do that to the British Empire.

So, with his new, heartless self (or, rather, his new _cold_-hearted self, for he found he couldn't exactly cast away those painful feelings, which must mean he still had somewhat of a heart), he waged war with America once again. He burned his capital to the ground. He watched those fires raise up and he felt some sort of pleasure there as he watched everything burn, some sort of sick pleasure, but then the pleasure ebbed away and he just felt sick and the fires rose higher and higher and it hurt him and he wanted to stop to see America to find him to comfort him because it must hurt even worse for the boy he was burning his heart his heart his innocent heart.

He didn't get much sleep after that. He couldn't sleep. He was woken by nightmare after nightmare. Crying America. Wounded America. Lifeless America.

And how could he have been so selfish? Why? Why did he do these things?

He hated himself. He returned home for a second time, too shocked to even cry now. He couldn't stand looking at his disgusting reflection in the mirror. He was hurting America.

He still _cared_ about America. He cared so much it was killing him inside.

Years passed. He was on shaky terms with America. The Confederacy asked for help and he helped. He didn't know who was America at that point. He couldn't tell. He liked what Confederate thought, though. He liked how kind Confederate was.

And, maybe, if he helped Confederate, America would disappear and he wouldn't have to deal with those painful feelings any longer.

But Confederate was the one that went, and England didn't know whether to be happy or sad, so he just stayed away. He stayed far away from anything America had to do. America, too, stayed far away from anything the rest of Europe had to do. America had already made it clear that he wanted no part in their affairs. America had become isolationist, and England felt bad. How lonely was the boy at this point? He had few allies, but maybe he didn't need them. He was such a strong country, and England still felt a little bit of pride whenever someone mentioned how powerful America was.

It was tainted with hurt, though. America was powerful enough to pull away, after all. His power meant nothing if England wasn't there to praise him.

When the Great War hit, England thought he could deal with it all on his own. He had France, after all, and Russia (who he still felt a little weary around). He thought they would be able to deal with the threat of the Central Powers.

But it seemed America had stolen all the power he had. It seemed he wasn't strong enough to help France and Russia fight off their enemies.

He went to America for help. As much as it pained him to ask his ex-colony, as much as it pained him to _see_ his ex-colony, he still went and pleaded for assistance.

"I don't want any part in this stupid war of yours," America had snapped, time and time again. "What are you fighting for, anyway?"

England's voice remained firm as he answered, time and time again. "For our country."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

England didn't know. He honestly didn't know. The whole war _was_ stupid, but England hated hearing his men cry out as they died, horrible, horrible deaths. "I need you," he would whisper, but America would already be out of the room by then, because why should he listen?

When England delivered the Zimmerman Note to America, that sick feeling of pleasure rose up within him. Even if Germany was trying to plot with Mexico to invade America, England still couldn't help but feel this was their ticket to win the war. How could America ignore such a blatant threat? He would come and they would be saved and England felt so pitiful for having to rely on him, but everything would go back to normal.

He was right. America came and made quick work of the enemy. He left just as quickly, though. The Allies had offered him colonies. After all, everyone else was grabbing some.

"Don't want 'em," America had mumbled at their conference, looking down angrily at the table. "I didn't even wanna come here in the first place. I got nothing more to do with you guys."

He left again and England wanted to be brokenhearted, but he was too greedy to care. Germany had to pay them a good amount of money, England had more colonies to deal with, so he found America's absence this time didn't leave as big of a hole in his heart.

In no time at all, Europe was fighting again. England supposed that if he had been a bit more strict when Germany was breaking their contract, it wouldn't have come to this. So was it his fault? Or was it France's fault, who was also not as strict and who seemed to have surrendered quickly and left England all alone?

He was bombed. He was bombed and it hurt _so bad_. He got no sleep for weeks. No food for weeks. He bled for weeks. He wondered if he could just die. But his people were still strong and England was stubborn and there was no way in hell he was going to give up. Not now. He wanted to keep going.

And, suddenly, supplies. Supplies and supplies and more supplies. "I don't understand," he whispered when America had decided to pay him a visit. "You told me you wished to stay out of my affairs."

America, though recovering from a terrible recession and still looking a bit off, gave a small smile. "I thought you might need help, though," he muttered. "I mean, I've seen pictures of stuff from your place and it looks really bad and I really don't want you to go through that."

England blinked and stared at him. America wasn't the boy he once knew. America was different. Everything was different about him. Sure, that childish innocence and enthusiasm was still present, but England saw a change in him.

And he himself felt a change in his feelings.

"Thank you, America," he murmured, reaching forward and hugging the boy- no, the man- but making sure to mind his injuries.

America seemed surprised, but hugged him back, gently so as to not ruin those carefully-wrapped bandages. "No problem."

England's heart didn't hurt so much. Maybe those pieces he lost could be healed again. Just as his wounds were slowly patching up, perhaps America would be able to help his heart do the same.


	6. A Lost Wallet and a Load of Cash

**Genre: Humor**

**Rating: PG  
**

**Summary: Alfred finds a wallet on the ground and, being the kind man he is, decides to return it to it's rightful owner.  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

Alfred considered himself to be a very courteous man. When he sees a lady, he opens the door for her. When an old woman is crossing the street, he rushes by her side to aid her. When he sees a child crying, he's always there to bring more cheer.

Point is, he likes being kind. He couldn't ever see himself as anything _but_ kind.

That's why, when he finds a wallet on the ground, he picks it up and pockets it, determined to look through it for ID when he arrives home, away from this busy street he's currently standing on. He feels bad for whoever lost such a nice wallet. It looks expensive- who knows how much the guy (or girl, he had to remind himself, though it looked more manly) had to pay for it. And, if the wallet itself cost a lot of money, just how much would he find inside?

When he finally flipped through it, he realized he was correct in his suspicions. That was a lot of money. "Holy shit, this guy is loaded," he breathed, eyes widening at the hundred-dollar bills he saw. He glanced around his apartment- shabby, falling apart, recycled couches, power that cut off because he couldn't pay...

He wanted this money. If he could just take the money like most anyone would, he might be able to live better, at least a little bit. He wouldn't have to survive on junk food alone or go paycheck by paycheck at his minimum wage job.

But then he came across some ID. Arthur Kirkland. Age- 25. Height- blah blah blah. He looked at the picture and felt his heart skip a beat.

That man was gorgeous. That man was absolutely the most amazing thing Alfred had ever seen. He sat on his beat-up couch, staring. The choppy, blond hair sticking out in every which direction. The beautiful, green eyes gazing back at him. The bushy eyebrows, furrowed and adorable. That tight-lipped expression that conveyed Arthur's irritability and impatience.

Oh, boy, Alfred was smitten.

He didn't _want_ to be smitten, though. The man could have a family. The man could have a girlfriend. The man could be simply rude and cruel and snobby. Alfred wouldn't put it past him, what with all the money he carried around in his wallet. Still, his emotions didn't take any of that into consideration. His emotions decided to act for themselves.

And they told him how smitten he was.

With a groan, Alfred found the phone number on one of the man's cards, then dialed him on his old, slightly-broke home phone.

The man answered rather quickly, sounding just a tad panicked. "Hello?"

Oh, god, he was British. Alfred felt himself fall even deeper into his...what to call it. Crush? Infatuation? Might he dare say...love?

"H-Howdy. I'm Alfred, and I kinda found your wallet on the ground today."

Arthur gave a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank goodness. I was so worried that I had lost it for good. Not too many people would have called to return it, what with the amount I have in there."

Alfred laughed. His accent! His accent was British! This guy was freaking _British!_ He wanted to just squeal like some immature teenaged girl. "Yeah, well...I dunno, I think it seems wrong to take all this money. I didn't earn it, so what's the point?"

Arthur, too, gave a chuckle. "It's very good to know there are still people like you in this world, Alan."

"Alfred," Alfred corrected, his happy mood draining just a tad. Couldn't the guy even bother to remember his damn name?  
"Oh, pardon me." At least he had the decency to sound embarrassed. "I'm not too good with remembering names, and...well, I was close, yes? Both of them start with 'al', right?" He gave a nervous laugh.

Smiling into the phone, Alfred replied, "Nah, don't worry about it, Arthur. Er, Mr. Kirkland."

"You can call me Arthur."

Well, at least they were on first name basis. That was good. "Alright. So, uh, one of your ID cards has your address on here. It's not _too_ far from my house, so I can deliver it in a jiffy."

"Oh, that would be lovely. Thank you so much, Alfred."

"No prob! See you shortly!" Alfred hung up, then jotted down the address before pocketing the wallet.

Maybe, if all went well, he could score himself a date with some hot British dude.

Of course, it wasn't any walk in the park getting to Arthur's place. Literally. He had decided to walk to save money on taxis and such, but he forgot how much he hated walking down the streets of New York City, especially when it was this crowded and hot outside.

Plus, he stepped in gum.

"Why couldn't the asshole spit the gum in the trashcan?" he grumbled as he took a break to try getting the sticky stuff off the bottom of his shoe. "It was right there! Are they seriously that lazy?" He hated walking down busy streets. He would have much preferred it if Arthur's house was _really_ in a park.

It took about half an hour, maybe more, but Alfred was finally able to find the street name. It was no surprise to him when he saw how huge the houses in the neighborhood were. After all, it only made sense that Arthur lived somewhere posh, what with all the money he had.

"5567," he muttered, glancing at the house numbers. "5567, 556- ah!" With a grin, he made his way up to the front door of the house and rung the doorbell.

Not even a few seconds passed before the door was opened, revealing that gorgeous man who, actually, looked even more gorgeous in real life. "Hey!" Alfred exclaimed. "Uh, I got your wallet!" He passed it over to Arthur, whose face lit up.

"Oh, why thank you so much, Alfred!"

At least he remembered his name this time.

"It's no problem. I'd freak out if I lost _that_ much money, too." He smiled and wondered if there was some way he could possibly ask Arthur out on a date without seeing too forward. Now that he finally _saw_ him, he was even more determined to somehow end up with him forever and ever.

Arthur glanced around. "Did you take a taxi up here?"

"Nuh-uh. I walked. It was only thirty minutes away, and taxis cost too much money."

Arthur looked over Alfred's appearance, obviously noticing the flushed cheeks and slight panting. "Do they?"

"Yeah." Then, realizing Arthur was loaded with cash, Alfred quickly added, "For me, anyway."

It seemed to be that sentence which made Arthur glare. "I won't allow you to walk another thirty minutes in this heat!" he exclaimed, and Alfred blinked in confusion. "Come inside and rest for a short while. I have refreshments and you can have as much as you'd like. And, when you're ready to go home, simply tell me and I'll drive you myself."

Alfred's face was blank for a few seconds, but then his mouth stretched into a wide grin. "One question," he said, holding up a finger. "Do you have some sort of family...like, a wife or-"

"Single," Arthur replied, raising those busy eyebrows of his. "Why?"

Noticing the amused stare, Alfred winked. "Just wondering."


	7. Tell Me Your Lies

**Genre: Hurt/Comfort**

**Rating: PG- Slight language  
**

**Summary: Arthur is Alfred's last chance to make a friend. The lies he spews doesn't help one bit, though.  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

Alfred read comic books, Arthur played soccer.

That's the way things were. You didn't mess with the laws of nature sometimes. When stereotypes were chosen, they had to be stuck to, just like Master Blob stuck to Captain Chowder Sauce in volume fifteen of The Masked Man.

...Alfred groaned, resting his head on the table. Man, he really _did_ live up to the dorky stereotype that was handed to him. It's almost as if God was tired after making such a perfect creation like Arthur so he just dumped a bunch of random ingredients together and _poof!_ Out came a comic book dweeb.

The fact that his appearance matched his personality didn't help much at all, either. He had huge glasses which magnified his blue eyes, he was too tall and too skinny, matching the term 'lanky' quite perfectly, he had acne across his face that he tried _so hard_ to get rid of, and he just acted plain awkward around others.

He tried acting normal. He tried grinning and talking about something _normal_, but when they fell into a silence and he could tell they were starting to get bored of talking to him, he began stammering and discussing his favorite comic books. That never went over well. They would always stare at him blankly, nodding every now and then, until finally interrupting him and claiming that they had to go.

And he lost yet another potential friend.

Most people around the school knew better than to talk to him. After freshman year, word had gotten around that Alfred Jones was a boring nerd who didn't deserve friendship. He was ignored at first, but then came the teasing and bullying. And, sadly enough, he found it far better than being ignored.

That's why, when Arthur transferred from England, Alfred saw a small ray of hope shine through. Arthur didn't know anything about him. Arthur wasn't yet tainted from those silly rumors that spread around the school He had a _chance_, a chance to befriend a guy who seemed pretty neat.

Plus, he was British. That always counted for something.

"Hey!" Alfred greeted him one day as they were walking out from school. Having a few classes together, Alfred found it was simple to just go up and start a conversation. "Uh, my name's Alfred. We sit together in chemistry."

"Yes, I know we do." Arthur gave a polite smile. "How do you do?"

Alfred grinned. At least they were talking. "I'm doing great, actually. It's Friday, so I get to go home and chill for a while."

"Mm, I know that feeling," Arthur replied. "What do you normally do on the weekends?"

Alfred could have jumped up for joy. He was being talked to! Now...truth or lie? A lie would make himself seem a lot cooler, and Arthur seemed like a cool guy, but didn't his mother always tell him to be honest? It was such a difficult decision, but as he noticed Arthur waiting there for him, he quickly said, "Oh, I go to parties and stuff."

"Really?"

"Yeah. See that group over there? We always chill together." He glanced over to the tall basketball players and waved his hand. "Hey, guys!" he called out. They glanced at him in surprise and, before they could do anything else, Alfred turned back to Arthur. "We're tight, man. They help me get all the chicks and stuff."

Arthur, however, looked rather unimpressed. "Amazing," he said, though he didn't sound amazed at all. "I suppose we'll meet up with each other tonight, then."

"Huh?"

"The basketball players, your 'tight' friends, are holding a party and I was invited." He shifted the backpack across his shoulder. "So I guess we'll meet up again, right?"

Alfred blinked. "Y-Yeah. Tonight. Phew, nearly forgot, what with all the other parties I gotta attend this weekend." Which was a lie, but had he actually said something truthful to Arthur yet? Other than how great he was doing. Except he didn't feel so great anymore, with all the lies he had spewing from his mouth. He gave Arthur a big thumbs-up. "See ya then, dude!"  
Arthur nodded. "Alright. I'll see you then."

"You're _not_ going to see him then," Matthew had snapped when Alfred told him the whole story.

Alfred stared at his brother with big, sad eyes. "I know, I know, I just...oh, god, why did I lie? That was so _stupid!_ Ugh, I'm such an idiot!"

"You don't need to tell me that." Matthew sighed. "Alfred, you're just going to have to accept that you made a grave mistake and that Arthur will never trust you again."

The younger of the two sulked. "I don't wanna do that," he mumbled. "Arthur was actually _polite_ to me. You know how difficult it is to find someone who will listen to me?"

Matthew raised his eyebrows. "Yes, and then you go off and ruin it by telling lies."

"Yeah, I know." Alfred leaned back in his chair. "Mattie, I gotta go to that party."

"I said no, and I'm in charge of you while mom and dad are away."

"Mattie, he'll _hate_ me if he figures out I lied to him. He's the only guy who might _really_ be my friend!" Alfred brought on his kicked-puppy face. "Please, Mattie? I really want someone else to be my friend other than you!"

Matthew groaned. "Alfred, just..." He pursed his lips, looking quite angry. "Just come back home before midnight."

"Yay!" Alfred hugged Matthew tightly. "You won't regret helping me, I promise!"

And so, Alfred attended a party he knew nothing about. Thank goodness everyone on Facebook was talking about it. All he had to do was log in, find those people that had befriended him over the social network site (and even though his heart skipped happily with each friend request he had received, he knew it was just for the number- they didn't really care about whether or not he was online). The address was simple to find and Alfred entered in the house with no trouble at all, pushing past groups of people making out and trying to find Arthur. He _had_ to show him how cool he was. He _had_ to prove that he was worthy of being a good friend.

"Hey, Arthur!" he exclaimed upon finding the blond Briton. "What's happening, my main man?" He patted Arthur's back, ignoring the confused glances the crowd hanging around Arthur was giving him- Alfred recognized them as the soccer players of the school.

Arthur, though, smiled. He smiled and Alfred wanted to grin- no one ever gave him a real, warm smile like that. "Hello, Alfred," the smaller boy replied. "I'm very glad that we ran into each other." He gestured around at the soccer team, all who were still eying Alfred curiously. "I made some new friends. Since I played football back in England, they asked me to join their team. Isn't that wonderful?"

Alfred mentally winced. Another jock. How could a jock be his friend? Unless he _himself_ was a jock. "Oh, dude, that's awesome! Now we gotta go to each other's games, alright?"

"Of course!" Arthur looked very excited. "What sport do you play?"

"Uh, w-well...basketball, of course!" This lie was just getting horrid now. "Ya know, with my tight group. We're all homies, man."

Luckily, the soccer team didn't say anything, though they were whispering to each other. "Really?" Arthur asked. "Congratulations on your win the other day. What was the score again?"

They had a game the other day? They won the other day? Alfred blinked. "It was...well...mm...see, that's a difficult...I was in the hospital."

Smooth. Real _fucking_ smooth of him.  
"Oh? What happened?"

"Oh, I just had a concussion. So I kinda don't remember the score. But I got a concussion scoring a point for my team, so I don't mind. Ya know, we should help our teammates out and everything!"

"Yes, I know." Arthur nodded then suddenly smirked. "Alfred, what position do you play?"

Alfred hated himself. "It changes sometimes. I'm really good, so they have to keep putting me in new positions!"

Arthur shook his head. "You're such a liar," he said, his voice laced with disappointment. "You're _not_ a basketball player, Alfred. You're a dork who reads comic books and is bullied by all the jocks."

"Wh-What? That's not true! I-"

"Cut it with the lies. Seriously. It's getting old." Arthur was glaring now. "On my first day here, I _saw_ you reading a comic book. And you know my first thought? It wasn't 'man, what a dweeb, no one will ever like him'. It was 'wow, someone at this school who isn't afraid of reading comic books and who doesn't try blending in with the crowd'!" He scoffed. "I wanted to be friends with you, from the moment I saw you. I myself am quite the nerd and I was bullied constantly at my other school, and to have someone who went against the crowd like I always do...that was special."

Alfred blinked. "B-But, you...you're with the soccer team!"

"Yes, and your point is? They only like me because I can play soccer. They don't care that I write constantly on my free time or that I can quote every line Shakespeare ever wrote. They don't care that I knit scarves for my family or that I adore befriending people online. We're simply buddies because I'm in the same sport they are. They won't seek me out after school to hang nor will they talk to me during the off-season." He spared a glance at the team of soccer players who were still watching the exchange. "No offense meant."

"None taken," the captain said, gathering the other jocks and walking away.

Arthur turned back to Alfred. "I knew this whole time that you weren't friends with any of these people, that you never attended the parties, that you never played a sport. I'm not stupid, Alfred. I was simply hoping your lies would stop. I don't want a friend who tries fitting into a different world to _impress_ me. Why should I be awed by their ability to pretend? To lie? To be awed by that would be ridiculous. It wouldn't be a true friendship then. It would be a fake friendship, for the only reason I would become a friend to someone like that would be through all their lies, and if they have to lie to befriend me, I'm not really their friend and they're not really mine. I wanted a friend who wasn't afraid to be _different_, Alfred, and I was hoping you would be the one to stay by my side as a good friend."

Alfred was shocked by everything Arthur had said. Sadly enough, the Briton was right. Alfred _shouldn't_ have lied. He should have just stuck by what he was best at. "I'm...I'm sorry," he muttered. "I just never had a friend and you were new which meant you didn't have the chance to tease me yet, and I thought that was the only way I could get someone to like me."

Arthur stared at him, those green eyes gazing into his. "Do you want to get out of here?" he asked suddenly, glancing around the house.

"What?"

"The noise is irritating me, and the people are even more so." He smiled and held out his hand for Alfred to take. "We could watch Sherlock Holmes at my place."

Alfred couldn't think of anything he'd rather do. "With pleasure!" he exclaimed, grabbing Arthur's hand and grinning.

Perhaps sticking to his own world wouldn't be so bad after all.

* * *

**Just a note: Not so sure about how much I like this one. I hurried through it, obviously. Gah...  
**


	8. All I Do is Dream of You

**Genre: Humor**

**Pairings: USUK (obviously), fem!France/America?  
**

**Rating: PG- Slight language  
**

**Summary: In which America and England are totally stars of a good ol' musical. And England wears dresses.  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or Singin' in the Rain.**

* * *

"For the last time, I didn't _mean_ for this to happen!" America snapped, watching as England straightened the very short and very pink dress he was wearing. "I don't know what the hell's going on, either."

England gritted his teeth. "You pressed that big red button on your remote and we're suddenly transported into this ridiculous movie?" he asked, looking as if he was trying not to kill the other country. "And how come you get to wear a suit and I'm stuck in a fucking dress and what the hell is this thing on my head?"

Listening to the music play, America groaned. "Considering how you popped out of that cake and considering my position, I'd say I'm Don Lockwood and you're Kathy Selden."

England blinked. "I'm who?" he asked, but America didn't have time to explain, for a bunch of other girls wearing the same outfit as England suddenly grabbed him and took him to the center of the room, where they preformed a dance.

Okay, the girls preformed a dance and England tried following along while blushing bright red and making sure no one was looking up his incredibly short dress. Despite the situation they were in, America couldn't help being amused.

After the weird dance was all over, the girls started to leave, but not before America could grab England's arm. "Alright, listen, I'll figure out some way to get us out of here. I guess we were transported into the movie somehow, I think I remember Tony telling me about this new thing he added to my remote-"

"_Singin' in the Rain_?" England hissed. "I hate this movie! Why did you choose to watch _this_-" And, suddenly, someone else was tugging at America's shoulder. They both turned and were very shocked to see a girl who looked amazingly similar to France.

She even had a horrid French accent. "Donny, who is this dame?"

Figuring that his nickname to this girl was 'Donny', America responded, "Uh...this is...Kathy." England glared at him as America tried remembering the lines to the movie. "She's a...stage...performer."

The female France blinked. "Oh, but Donny, why are you talking to her?"

Either England looked very much like a girl or he _was_ a girl to everyone _else_ in this world, for no one was questioning why a guy was wearing such a showy outfit.

"Because she's irritating the hell out of me with her glares and I did nothing wrong-"

"You want to see nothing wrong, you git?" England growled, looking around and grabbing the closest thing he could, which just so happened to be a pie. "This is one thing I learnt from your stupid movies! _This_ is nothing wrong!"

But America was far quicker than England had anticipated. Just as the smaller man threw it, America ducked and heard a collective gasp around the room. When he straightened up, he saw the female France standing there, pie dripping down from her face and onto her sparkly dress.

She squealed, taking deep breaths and looking ready to cry. Then, seemingly from nowhere, Prussia popped up, and America was struggling to figure out what was happening. "Hey, Lina, you've never looked better!" he exclaimed to the female France (and, if America was remembering this movie correctly, he assumed France was now Lina which must mean Prussia was Cosmo, which meant he was 'dating' France and was best buddies with Prussia- everything was quite confusing).

In the midst of chaos, he didn't notice that England had left. Which really wasn't good. They needed to figure out how to get out of this place together. "'Scuse me," he muttered, running out of the room (leaving poor France/Lina in a state of shock, but he could feel bad about that later) and into the female dressing room, where all the other girls in pink had gone. "Sorry for barging in!' he exclaimed, making sure not to look if any girls _were_ naked or something. "But did anyone see, uh...Kathy?"

"She left out the door," one of the girls supplied. "Seemed in a hurry."

"Thanks." America nodded to her and also left, just in time to see England driving away. And England looked over just in time to see America standing there.

"I'll find my own way back home, you bloody wanker!" England yelled before he was out of sight.

America tried finding England. He looked everywhere for a 'girl' named Kathy, but England seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

Prussia was intent on cheering his friend up. "You're looking so down, Don. C'mon, man, brighten up some! It's been two weeks since you last saw her."

Two weeks? America wanted to groan. What about all his paperwork? "I just...I can't get hi-her outta my head," he mumbled. "I need to find her." He really did. Except...there was that horrid possibility that England had managed to find his way back into their own world. Which would mean America was stuck here looking forever and ever and ever and _why_ did he ever press that stupid button? It clearly said 'DO NOT PRESS', and America just _had_ to be the idiot and press it.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do when stuck in a situation as insane as this one. He moped.

Apparently, America's glum mood wasn't going to work out for Prussia. The ex-nation (or, as America had learned, pianist, for they apparently seemed to work for a movie studio now and America was a popular silent actor and France/Lina was his co-star who always played his lover or something while Prussia/Cosmo supplied all of the music for the fight scenes or love scenes or talking scenes or whatever scenes) sat his friend down in a chair and glared at him. "Quit being so upset, Don! The show must go on! Come rain or shine or snow or sleet, the show must go on!"

Oh, shit, this part was a singing number. America groaned as Prussia sat at the piano and began playing something and talking and then slamming his hand into the keys- and his foot- before jumping up on the piano and starting the song.

It really was a strange sight to see Prussia dancing and singing and running into walls and being a completely crazy idiot. Actually, all of that was normal except for the dancing (because, according to Spain who heard from Romano who heard from Italy who heard from Germany, Prussia sang in the shower, and everyone else already knew he was a crazy idiot).

And life went on. Albeit, with a lot more singing and dancing and _so much_ acting (which America didn't mind- he rather liked working in a movie, even if he _could_ do without kissing France), but life went on. And then came the day where Prussia grabbed him from whatever it was he was doing and took him to the set of another movie being made, where America was able to see the end of a song number and, lo and behold, there was England.

Turning to his boss (who America was pretty sure was a country, but he hadn't figured out which one yet- some sort of Italian place, possibly, what with the accent), America said, "Call that guy...oh, uh, girl over here. The one in the front with the pretty smile." He blushed when saying it, but England really _did_ have a pretty smile.

His boss smiled and did as America asked, and after nearly an entire month or two of being separated from each other, America came face-to-face with England. America's faced stretched into a wide grin and the small country sighed, giving America a glare as America's boss (America never thought he'd call anyone but the president his boss) offered 'Kathy' a job in the studio.

"Thanks, but I'll have to decline."

"No, don't do that!" America begged. "You know how long I spent...?" He trailed off, staring into England's eyes and England staring back into his, looking quite surprised at America's sudden seriousness. "Don't worry, she accepts," America corrected, grabbing England's shoulder. "Come on, we're taking a walk."

Once outside, England spoke again. "So your boss is Rome?" he asked.

"Huh? Oh, I knew he was _someone_ from our world. Didn't know it was Rome." America hummed. "That's what Rome looks like?"

England nodded. "Yes."

"I see you've gotten used to wearing dresses more."

England blushed. "Yes."

"Looks good on you."

England gritted his teeth. "Thanks."

And, sadly enough, America was right. Though England didn't quite have the, ahem, _female assets_ for the dress, it still fit his slim form quite nicely.

They continued walking, only stopping by a large studio. "Hey!" America exclaimed, peeking in. "I remember this scene!"

"Git, I don't think we're supposed to be in here," England hissed. "It's empty, but I think they'll be-"

"Oh, come on, I'm Don Lockwood! Haven't you heard, everyone loves me! I can do no wrong!" Grabbing England's hand now, America pushed him into the studio. "This scene was always a good one and made all the girls sigh happily."

"Please don't tell me it's a love scene," England choked.

"It is. See, you're supposed to stand on that ladder and I have to turn that fan on, and those lights, and that fog machine, and then I have to sing a song about how you're meant for me and I'm meant for you and how gorgeous you are and blah blah blah."

England rubbed at his forehead. "Please don't tell me you'll do that."

"Pfft, no." America snorted. "Iggy, in this day and age, we don't express our feelings through song anymore."

"Which day and age are you referring to? The one we're currently in or the one we _need _to be in? Because, I can assure you, I've had my fair share of singing and dancing."

"I'm referring to the one we _should _be in," America responded. "You don't see anyone dancing and singing to show their love."

England shrugged. "That's debatable." He looked up at America. "Well...this is supposed to be our love scene?"

"Yep!"

"But you don't want to follow the movie script?"

"Hell no."

"And why is that?"

America smirked. "If I followed the movie script, I wouldn't be able to kiss you right now." And he leaned forward and kissed England, soft at first, but it soon turned passionate and England was kissing back, tugging at his hair and pressing their bodies together and America could-

They both opened their eyes at the same time and, strangely enough, they were back in their original time. Kissing must have done the trick.

How cliched. Well, at least no time had passed in this world.

America checked his body, sighing in relief when he saw he was wearing his usual jeans and t-shirt. "Oh, thank _god_ that's over with!" he exclaimed, glancing over at England, who wasn't wearing a dress anymore but still looked rather kissable and very flushed. "Back in our own world, huh?"

"Indeed we are." England cleared his throat. "Let's...let's not watch _Singin' in the Rain_ today," he added. "I think I've had enough of it."

"I'm with ya there." America turned the television off. "So, whaddya wanna do?"

England was quiet for a few seconds before turning to America. "May we continue from where our _own_ movie left off? I must say, I'm a tad bit disappointed you didn't sing to me as Don Lockwood normally would have done, but since you are quite the skilled kisser and since we don't have the right set for singing and dancing, I suppose I can make do with just us and this couch."

America grabbed England and pulled the two of them together without another word uttered.


	9. Challenge Accepted

**Genre: Humor  
**

**Rating: R-15?: Heavy language, sexual innuendos  
**

**Summary: America is challenged by Molossia to do nothing with England for a whole week. It's the end of the world for him.  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

"And his eyes are just so _green_, like an emerald, maybe, or that bright color grass can get on a sunny day, or...or, I mean, I can't think of anything else that's that green, except maybe when I plug my phone up to charge or if I see this incredibly green frog, except I think he hates frogs 'cause he hates France and he calls France a frog-"

"Mm. Fucking lovely." Molossia slumped over in his seat and sent his most threatening glare possible to America. It wasn't working- America was too lost in thought to even notice that Molossia had spoken. That and Molossia forgot to take his sunglasses off.

"And don't get me started on those eyebrows. They never really bothered me much as a kid, 'cause why should I care how other people look and I just assumed that he was probably too busy to trim those caterpillars, but as I grew up and he got over his whole, 'OMG, America hates me' phase, it became _really_ fun to tease him, and I think he knew I was just joking around, but it was still fun, and now I think they're even cuter, if it's possible for eyebrows to be cute, but they _are_, mainly 'cause I think everything about him is cute-"

Molossia took off his sunglasses and expected them for dust. Maybe he needed a new pair. There were finger prints smudged on one of the lenses. "I need new sunglasses," he announced.

America, of course, still didn't hear. "-his voice is the cutest thing he's got, 'cause it's so British and I love me some British accent, 'specially if it comes from him-"

"I might buy a designer pair this time, splurge a little," Molossia mumbled.

"-and the way he says my name is so awesome, it's just special and you can tell he only says it _for_ me, like his tone is different when he's around the other countries and he just uses this special way of speaking only for me when we're alone together-"

Molossia flushed. "If you start talking about your sex life, I'll fucking leave," he growled.

And still nothing. America was far too lost and Molossia was starting to get rather pissed. "-his cooking isn't the best thing in the world, but he _tries_, he tries so hard, Mol, and every so often, I actually can see-"

"Did you just call me Mol? Fuck that, I don't want a nickname!"

"-did you know that he's real good at knitting? He's knitting me a scarf for the winter, actually, and he said he'll knit it like one of those scarves in Harry Potter and I told him I wanted a Gryffindor scarf, so he's gonna knit me one in those colors and I told him he should also knit himself one and we could match and it'll be adorable, but he got all red in the face and started stammering, and I think it's really sweet how shy and embarrassed he gets sometimes, you wouldn't know it with all the mean fronts he puts up and how he used to tease me about my weight, except he knows not to now and he calls me perfect the way-"

Molossia finally had enough. He slammed his fists down on the table, his face contorted into a snarl. "Shut up," he snapped. "Just fucking shut up about England, alright?" America's blue eyes grew wide and, thankful he was finally able to get his elder brother to stop rambling, Molossia sat back with a long sigh. "You couldn't live without him for a week, could you?"

America pouted. "C-Could so," he stammered, obviously still unused to Molossia blowing up more and more often. "I just love him is all, but I could live without him for a week!"

Molossia raised an eyebrow. "No communication," he said. "No communication with him for one whole week? No talking, no touching, _no fucking looking?_"

The elder country shifted in his seat. "W-Well, I might use my hand a lot-"

"Gross." Molossia grimaced. "Really, just...no." He had no desire to hear anything about how America, er..._pleasured_ himself.

America crossed his arms. "Anyway. Point is, I could live without him."

They stared at each other for a few minutes and a small smirk came to Molossia's face. "Oh. Right. Challenge?"

"Challenge accepted."

Molossia's smirk grew. He could see the anxiety clearly plastered on America's face as the micronation picked up his cell phone. He could see sweat beads forming on his forehead as Molossia slowly dialed the number.

"Hello," a distinct British accent answered. "Er...this is one of America's micronations, correct?"

Molossia rolled his eyes. Screw America and his inability to talk more about the rest of his family. "Yeah," he growled. "Listen, America and I are doing a challenge-"

"What a git." England huffed. "He's always doing ridiculous things like that."

"Whatever. Point is, you guys aren't allowed to see each other for a whole week." When it was silent on England's end, Molossia groaned. "Will you fucking _say_ something?"

"Y-Yes, of course. Well...I suppose one week wouldn't hurt any." Even England sounded unsure, and Molossia realized that this would be a lot more fun than he had expected.

With a nod toward America, Molossia continued. "That means no talking, even over the phone, got it?"

England hesitated, then said, "I understand. I shall refrain from calling. And I will not answer the phone if I see it's him. I know America- he'd try going behind your back. Keep an eye out, Molossia."

"Don't have to tell me twice." Molossia clicked his tongue over the roof of his mouth and hung up. "England's in on this challenge," he stated. "Don't screw it up, America. I wanna know that you can live without that British limey for a few days."

America bit his lip. "Yeah," he muttered. "Ah...can you stay here with me, though?"

"You're sick. I'm your brother, not your little fuck-buddy as a replace-"

"No, no!" America looked disgusted. "Gross! Like you said, you're my brother! I wouldn't want _that! Gross_."

"Oh." Molossia fiddled with his sunglasses before placing them back on his face. "Yeah, sure, whatever. I'll stay. Just don't be moping around about how much you miss him or something. In fact, _no_ talking about England to me, got that? I don't wanna hear your pitiful cries and shit."

"Got it!" America saluted. "Scout's honor."

Since when had America kept a promise of 'scout's honor', though? Molossia didn't know what he was expecting, but three days from then, he found America sprawled out on the couch in the same t-shirt and boxers he wore to bed the first day, staring glumly at the wall. "Honestly?" Molossia scoffed, stepping over a pile of dirty laundry (his brother really did need to get off his lazy ass and finish some chores, because Molossia certainly wasn't going to do it for him). "Look at you. You're pathetic."

"Lemme die in peace," America groaned, burying his face into a pillow. "How the hell did I _survive_ without England, Mol?"

Molossia wrinkled his nose. "Quit calling me that. It's a shitty nickname. Makes me sound like one of those creatures or something."

America's only response was another groan and Molossia couldn't help but feel a bit bad for his brother. It must be hard being away from a loved one for so long with no form of communication. "H-Hey, cheer up," he said, awkwardly patting America's back. "It's only for a few more days."

"Four more days," America replied. "If I can barely survive three, how will I survive three plus one?"

"You could have just said four." Molossia ran his fingers through his hair, which was lying flat since America was the only one around him to see it. "I dunno. Why don't you try playing your video games?"

America glanced over at his PlayStation 3. "I did try," he mumbled. "Except the main character had blond hair and I thought of England." His eyes welled up with tears and Molossia was torn between being worried or irritated.

"Seriously?" he asked, slapping a hand to his face. "You're not even joking about that?"

"I wish I was!" America wailed, burying his face back into the pillow. "He had blond hair and I instantly imagined him as England and I wanted to _dieeeee!_" He ended his sentence with a long bawl, already soaking the pillow.

Molossia's eyebrow twitched. "Stay there," he snapped, leaving the room and dialing a new number.

"Hello?" It was a timid voice and, normally, Molossia wouldn't have ever called this nation (more often than not, he forgot it existed), but it was a desperate time.

"How do you deal with America when he's fucking crying like a baby?" he asked.

The voice paused. "Uh, who is this?"

"Molossia. Damn, and people say _you're_ the one who no one knows, Cananoda."

"Where did you even get that name? It's Canada."

"Get the hell over it. At least you ain't called fucking _Mol_."

"Whatever." Canada sighed. "Um, so...why did you call, Molossia? I don't believe we've ever really-"

"Yeah, screw the pleasantries and stuff. Listen, how do you get America to stop crying? He's _your_ brother, too, so you need to take responsibility for him." Molossia ran his fingers through his hair once more, glancing at a mirror in the hallway and trying to get it to stand up the way he liked for it to when talking to other nations. For some reason, they made him feel quite conscious about himself. Even if it was on the phone. And even if it was Canadia.

Canada hummed a tad, obviously thinking. "Ice cream helps," he said. "Or a run to McDonald's. Maybe you could stick in a movie. He likes Indiana Jones a lot."

Molossia rubbed his forehead. "Yeah. Sure. Will do, thanks."

Just as he made a move to hang up, though, Canada quickly said, "Wait! Why is he crying?"

"I challenged him not to have anything to do with England for a week, and..." Molossia listened to one of the greatest world powers sob out words incoherently in the other room. "He's not doing so hot."

"Pity." Canada sounded far from sorry. "Anyway, I hope everything works out for you, Molossia."

Yeah, whatever, Cambodia." He hung up the phone and stomped back into the room. "Will you ever shut up?" he asked, looking through the huge collection of movies America owned. "You sound like you're dying."

"If only!" America blurted out.

"You're over-dramatic. Geez." Molossia was getting pissed now. "Look. Indiana Jones." He stuck the first movie into the DVD player and turned out the lights. "You like these movies, right?" America slowly nodded and wiped his nose free of snot. "Good." Molossia strode across the room and grabbed his shoes.

"Wh-Where are you going?" America stammered, rubbing his hands across his eyes.

"I'm gonna go get you some food," Molossia snapped. "Since you're obviously too busy crying on your lazy ass to even think about eating." He tossed on his new designer sunglasses (they were expensive, but he could manage) and noticed America's sheepish look.

"'Msorry," the elder nation mumbled. "I'm causing a lot of trouble for you."

Molossia snorted. "Fucking understatement of the year." And, with that, he left, making sure to slam the door hard behind him. He was regretting his decision to do this challenge now.

While waiting in the (incredibly) long line at McDonald's, his cell phone rang and, with surprise, he noticed it was England. "Yeah?" he asked, picking it up. "The hell you want?"

England sounded a bit nervous. "Ah, g-good day, Molossia."

"It's too hot to be a good day."

"Maybe for you." The island nation chuckled. "Now, listen...I...I haven't been feeling all too well lately. I'm a tad bit, er..."

"Lonely?"

"Yes, and...well...it's sort of embarrassing, but also maybe sexually depr-"

Molossia sucked in an air of breath. "How _often_ do you and America have sex?" He couldn't _believe_ this.

"Well, since I was planning on visiting him, we probably would have engaged in some sort of sexual activity at least once a night and-"

"Rhetorical question!" Molossia snapped. Ugh, he didn't want to know, he didn't want to know (and yet his inner mind was busy saying, _That's a lot of sex right there_). "That was a fucking rhetorical question."

A few of the ladies in the line glared at him and clapped their hands over the ears of the children. Molossia flushed. He hated cursing in front of little kids. "Sorry," he mouthed to them.

England chuckled. "R-Right, my a-apologies, right now, I'm...I'm just..." He sighed. "Can you please call off the bet?"

"Seriously?"

"Y-Yes. I assume America has been giving you trouble-"

"You don't know the half of it." Molossia frowned as he made his way to the counter. "Five of the biggest burgers you guys got," he ordered. "Oh, make that six. I need something to eat, since that idiot usually hogs all the food." He turned back to the phone. "I visited him 'cause I wanted to actually _do_ stuff, since he is very big on adventure and I don't mind it myself. He's just sitting around the house, though, crying and wailing and being a big baby." And that sentence was so difficult to spit out without cursing at least once, but the parents were still glaring at him and he didn't want to be kicked out of a public fast food joint.

England sighed, though he sounded amused. "He really is a baby, isn't he?"

"Yep." Molossia grabbed the bags of burgers handed to him and left the restaurant, happy to be given free range of his speech again. "So you want me to call off the bet?"

"O-Only if you think he'd be happy."

"Fuck happy, he'd probably blow up out of ecstasy. He misses you like he misses The Lone Ranger."

"...Is that a good thing?"

"Yeah. Call him and tell him the bet is off and I don't give a fuck anymore. Throw in a few mean words from me, ya hear? Tell him he's an idiot."

"I do that far more than necessary. Thank you, Molossia."

"Whatever." Molossia hung up the phone and climbed in his car, allowing himself a minute to rest his head on the steering wheel.

So, without each other, America and England were reduced to a pair of whiny, lost, confused nations. Basically, they were nothing if they didn't have their companionship.

"They're _both_ fucking idiots," he growled, starting his engine.


	10. As You Wish

**Genre: Romance**

**Rating: PG- Some language and _slight _sexual situations  
**

**Summary: Amelia had never really questioned her relationship with Farm Boy. _The Princess Bride_ crossover.  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

She never knew his name. That's just how it was at first. One day, he just showed up as her father's new helper and no one really questioned it. They didn't introduce him to anyone. Amelia just happened to walk outside to see him chopping their wood.

"Father," she had said, going back inside. "There's a strange boy with big eyebrows chopping our wood."

Her father simply nodded. "Yes, he's our new helper."

Amelia glanced out their window. "Oh. What's his name?"

"Dunno."

"Well, what should I call him?"

"Whatever you feel like calling him, darling."

From that day forth, the boy became known as Farm Boy. Every so often, Amelia would try to get him to say his name. "You honestly don't mind being called Farm Boy?" she asked.

And he would shake his head at her. "No," he always replied. "No, I don't mind."

She would glare at him with a pout. "Well, I don't mind calling you that!"

"Alright."

"You'd better get used to it, Farm Boy!"

He would smile softly at her and she always hated how his green eyes looked down, for it just solidified the fact that she was younger and weaker.

"I already have, Amelia."

During dinners, she would complain about it to her parents. "I find it unfair that he gets to call me Amelia and I just have to call him Farm Boy!"

Her mother would sigh. "Amelia, you told us this many times before. Just be quiet already. He _is_ a farm boy, and if he's going to be that stubborn, then we will continue calling him Farm Boy."

"Well, how come _he_ gets to sleep and eat out in the barn?" Amelia would grouch. "You guys _never_ let me eat out in the barn. Or sleep."

"He's filthy," her mother always said. "Besides, I don't trust him in the house with us."

And nothing more was said on the matter because Amelia's mother had tired eyes and didn't particularly like talking about Farm Boy.

Time passed. Amelia only spoke to Farm Boy if she needed something. He never spoke to her, other than a simple, "As you wish."

Not that Amelia minded. She could do without his accent- obviously, he came from faraway lands, and her kingdom didn't get along well with any other kingdom. Which would probably make him the bad guy. And she sure wasn't going to deal with any bad guys soon- despite how amazing it would be to fight, she had a farm to run.

Her parents died when she turned seventeen. She mourned for them, buried them, and went back to work on the farm.

Farm Boy was her only companion after that. She didn't get along well with the other girls in the local village. They had much more money than she did. They didn't have to feed pigs or slaughter chickens to earn a living. They could rely on their parents or, as was the case with many of the girls her age, husbands.

Amelia didn't want to marry, though. Farm Boy was a man, and he was icky enough, what with the eyebrows and pale skin- despite the many hours he spent in the sun- and scraggly hair. Besides, her mother always told her to marry a guy with status. Farm Boy only had a status with the cows he milked. And that wasn't good enough.

Still, even if she was a poorer citizen, that didn't take away from her beauty. She bathed every other night, ordering Farm Boy to heat the water to the perfect temperature and telling him to make himself scarce during her hour of soaking and relaxing. Her hair, though short to make it easier to clean, was always thick and beautiful. She boasted a lovely figure, a dazzling smile, and to top it all off, the brightest blue eyes in five kingdoms.

So she bragged to Farm Boy, anyway, whenever they had tedious work to do and she hated the silence that fell between them.

She didn't really believe her beauty was _that_ great, however, until a traveler stopped by her house and an eventful evening unfolded.

"Set the table, Farm Boy," she had snapped when she saw the carriage stop. Unlike her mother, she honestly could care less if Farm Boy was allowed in the house. In fact, after claiming her parent's room for herself, she gave Farm Boy her own tiny room. And a mirror, in hopes that he would trim his eyebrows one day. No such luck thus far.

Farm Boy looked over at the carriage, a strange expression crossing his face when he saw the well-dressed men coming up the way. "As you wish," he muttered, obeying her orders.

They all sat down for dinner after the Duke and his aid thanked her many times. "We had gotten lost on our way from the neighboring kingdom," the Duke explained, looking suspiciously at his soup. "Did...did you make this soup, Miss?"

"No," Amelia replied with a grin. "Farm Boy over here did." She pointed at the elder lad who raised his eyebrows as the Duke dropped the spoon back in the soup and pushed it aside.

"Well, I'm not very hungry."

Amelia shrugged and shoveled down her own soup. "More for me, then," she muttered and she completely missed the pleased look that flashed across Farm Boy's face.

The Duke watched her closely, then said, "Miss, are you married?"

Amelia's spoon clattered against the table. "Oops!" she giggled. "Slippery fingers. I'm sorry, you were saying?"

"I was just wondering if your husband was away. You look about the age to be a wife." The Duke smiled. "Your husband must be a lucky fellow."

Amelia flushed. "Oh, I-I'm actually not...not married," she said, shaking her head quickly. "Most men around here don't suit well with me, right?"

The Duke gestured over the Farm Boy. "Well, it isn't very proper for such a lady as yourself to be living with another man. In the same house, too!"

"Proper?" Amelia puffed her cheeks out in a very unflattering pout. "It is so proper! He's just Farm Boy! I've lived with him forever!"

The Duke nodded. "Sorry. My mistake." He ignored the slight glare Farm Boy was shooting his way.

Amelia stood, collecting the dishes. "No, it's quite alright," she replied. "I shouldn't have snapped. I apologize." The Duke watched her move about curiously, his eyes raking over her body.

"Back to the subject of marriage," he coughed. Amelia glanced over at him and he continued. "I assume you're waiting for the right man to come along, correct?"

"Actually, sir, I'm not really _waiting_. I just don't see the point in marriage." She grinned at the Duke's widened eyes. "Farm Boy and I get along just fine on our own, you see. Besides, if I get married, my husband will make me leave my home. I like it here. It may not be fancy, but something kind of ties me to this place." She shrugged.

The Duke scratched at his nose. "Well...I do think marrying will give you more money." He stood, offering her a smile. "I'm actually single and I've been looking for a wife. You, Miss, are a lovely lady, and I couldn't think of any greater honor than to be your husband."

Amelia flushed deeply. "W-Well, I..." She trailed off, looking all too nervous for her own good, and she felt more flustered than she had ever felt in her life, including that once where Farm Boy saw her undressing on accident (he had run off and it took her a few hours to find him, and that was the only day_ he_ actually seemed flustered). "I don't know what to say."

The Duke took her hand, despite her obvious reluctance, and kissed it, looking up at her. "Say yes," he whispered. "It will be all too easy. Besides..." His eyes slowly traveled downwards. "You're lovely."

Amelia had the feeling he certainly _wasn't_ speaking about her face. And that hungry gaze he had made her terribly frightened. Without even thinking, she brought her other hand up and slapped his cheek as hard as she could. Years of farm work made her stronger than most other girls, and the slap both looked and sounded incredibly painful.

It was silent for a second, and the Duke's face nearly turned purple in rage. "Why you little bitch," he snarled, grabbing that hand and twisting it. Her strength wasn't good enough to allow her to fight off a full-grown man, however. She cried out, and that seemed to get Farm Boy suddenly moving.

He had stood when he, too, noticed the lewd stare, and once the Duke grabbed Amelia's hand, Farm Boy was ready. He punched the Duke's face, the nose breaking under his fist and blood spurting out. "Leave," he growled, his green eyes narrowing. "You're not to touch Amelia like that. Ever."

The Duke puffed his chest out, holding his nose with one of his hands. "You're just a stupid farm boy," he snapped. "And I, I am the Duke of Kings-"

"I said _leave_," Farm Boy snapped, and even Amelia's eyes widened in fear. "Don't you come back here again. If I ever see your ugly face around Amelia, I'll pound it into bits. I'll break even more than your nose, sir."

The Duke glared at him, but Farm Boy seemed to have perfected his own glare and was easily able to stare the Duke down. Without another word, the Duke snatched up his hat, shook awake his aid (who had fallen asleep at his spot during dinner, being at the age he was) and quickly left, not looking back even once.

The two young adults stared after the carriage, and they continued staring, even when it was gone. Amelia, as per usual, was the first to break the silence. "Farm Boy?" she whispered, rubbing at her wrist.

Farm Boy turned to her, something deep within his eyes that Amelia couldn't exactly name. "Yes?"

She hesitated for a second, opening her mouth to say something, closing it again, then opening it one final time. "Help me with the dishes."

He nodded, all traces of that expression gone from his face. "As you wish."

From that moment on, something had changed between the two. Amelia didn't know what it was, though. She found she couldn't speak normally around Farm Boy. She found he wasn't all that bad looking after all. Even his eyebrows were really growing on her.

Nearly two weeks after that incident, Farm Boy sat down for dinner and said, "I am leaving tomorrow morning."

"What?" Amelia looked up from the burnt peas Farm Boy had cooked. "Why?"

Farm Boy smiled softly at her. "I don't wish to hinder you from finding a husband," he replied. "A worthy husband. I feel as if I am holding you back. You deserve a better life than this, and I am certainly not helping you achieve much of anything." He glanced away from her. "There are many other places to live. Many other things to do. I'm packing my bags after dinner."

She didn't know what to say. She just nodded and stared down at her food. It didn't seem as appetizing as it did just minutes ago.

As she lay in bed that night, she found she couldn't sleep. Usually, she was out in a few seconds. She didn't normally have any trouble falling asleep. Now, though, she tossed and turned in her bed, unable to get comfortable. And her thoughts kept drifting back to Farm Boy.

She told herself she would be just fine on her own. It wasn't as if they were _friends_ or anything. He was just like a servant to her. And...and what was she to him? She didn't want to be just his master. The thought scared her. No, but she didn't want to be his friend, either. That didn't seem...right. She swallowed. He couldn't leave. She didn't want him to leave. There was something that had always tied her to this spot, and...it wasn't the house. It wasn't the farm. It wasn't the lovely scenery.

She stood from her bed, wrapping a robe around himself and storming into his room, throwing the door open to reveal him shirtless and tangled about in his sheets.

"Wh-Amelia?" He sat up, blinking the sleep from his eyes. "Are you alright?"

Amelia felt herself blush at the indecency of it all. But she didn't run. She couldn't run, not when she had something on her mind that she so desperately needed to spit out. "Farm Boy, you're an idiot!" she snapped. "After that stupid little incident just a few weeks ago, do you honestly think you can just get up and leave me? You know how much I'll miss you? I can't even get to sleep, because _you're_ invading my mind! The only reason I'd _want_ for you to be gone is so I can actually stop thinking about you, but if you leave, I think I'll go crazy!"

Farm Boy looked confused. "What...what are you saying?"

She took a deep breath. "Farm Boy?"

"...Yes?"

And then her big, bad self vanished and she bit her lip and whispered, "Stay with me?"

He stared and then stood, making his way to her. Amelia didn't move. Her eyes widened as they stood close together, but she didn't move, even if she was certain he could hear her heart hammering in her chest.

"As you wish," he replied in a hushed tone, brushing some hair from her face.

They stood like that for a few minutes. "Farm Boy?"

He chuckled. "Yes?"

"Tell me your name?"

"It's been so long, I think I've nearly forgotten." His fingers lightly caressed her skin and her heart skipped a beat. "Arthur. It's Arthur."

"That's..." She smiled. "That's a nice name."

He nodded, and she felt the need to do _something_.

"Arthur?"

"Yes?"

And her mouth had gone dry again and she blushed, but she asked, "Kiss me?" and she sounded perfectly sure about her request.

And Arthur grinned. "As you wish."


	11. Those Summer Nights

**Genre: Romance**

**Rating: PG- Language**

**Summary: Amelia and Arthur weren't anything alike, yet their summer fling seemed to be more than either of them wanted it to be. ****_Grease_**** crossover.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

A week before school started back up, Arthur dyed his hair. He picked up the reds and blues and greens and went crazy with his hair, smiling in satisfaction once finished.

He put his piercings back in. Ear, tongue, and nose. And he was slowly getting back to normal.

Last, but not least, he ditched the normal khakis and t-shirt for his old punk attire, feeling more than pleased when he saw how perfectly it fit on him.

And Arthur Kirkland, punk of Eastwood High School, was back in business.

On the first day, he met up with all of his friends. They laughed, greeting each other with the usual greetings, sharing a cigarette before classes began, the normal stuff.

"So, what have you been up to, Artie?" Gilbert asked, leaning back in his seat during their lunch break outside.

Arthur smirked. "Oh, not much. Went to the beach, as all of you fine men know by now. I met this girl-"

The others instantly leaned in. "You're not gonna let us go off without you telling us everything, are ya?" Mathias asked, grinning. "Come on, spit it out. We're a team, we tell each other everything."

Arthur raised his massive eyebrows, taking a long drag of his cigarette. "I'm sure you don't really want to hear all the horny details, though."

He could practically see the interest level of the other boys rise by fifty percent. "Mm, now I'm even more curious," Francis purred. "What dame could possibly do something with such a grouchy man?"

The British punk smirked. "It's possible," he said. "I am quite a catch." After torturing his friends for a few more minutes, he finally gave in, getting more comfortable in his seat. "Well, I was at the beach, of course. And I was simply minding my own business, as per usual, when I saw this girl in the ocean. You could tell she honestly had no clue how to swim, and what sort of gentleman would I be if I let such a lovely lady as that one drown?" He scoffed, blowing smoke out of his mouth. "When I rescued her, she's spewing some shit about having a cramp, which is all the more reason she should be thankful. Cramps when swimming are tough."

"Get on with it, Artie," Gilbert groaned. "I'm not in the mood for one of your storytelling events."

Arthur laughed. "Patience is a virtue, Gil," he responded, but he did try to hurry it along. "Anyway, I told her I wanted to spend some more time with her so I could make sure she didn't get any more cramps. We went bowling in the arcade the next day. She was pretty good." And there came that smirk again. "But that wasn't the only thing she was good at." When he noticed how Francis' eyes brightened, he held back a chuckle. "She told me that _she_ wanted to make it up to me. So around midnight, we met each other at the beach. No one was around, so no one saw us make out."

The boys were clapping and whistling, but Arthur clearly wasn't done. "And it kept going and, before we knew it, she was getting friendly down in the sand."

And the applause from his friends was outstanding. "Was she good?" Mathias asked, looking like he was about to die a very happy death from Arthur's information.

Said punk snorted. "Hell yes. She was quite good."

"Alright, then what happened?" Francis asked, running his fingers through his hair and looking ready to hear the other 'horny details'.

Arthur wet his lips. "Ah, well...I had to leave. We hooked up here and there some more, but I knew we couldn't stay together. I still have no idea where she came from or where she is now, but I did tell her we could still be friends if we ever met again." He shrugged, though he looked strangely displeased. "It was just a simple summer fling, though, so I didn't expect much of anything to come out of it."

"So, Amelia, how was your summer?" Madeline asked as they sat down at the lunch table together. "You're new here so, unlike the rest of us, you weren't able to tell anyone in class or anything when they asked."

Amelia giggled. "Yeah, I don't mind. And my summer was great!" She sighed dreamily. "I met the cutest boy ever."

Madeline smiled. "Really? What was he like?"

"Well...he wasn't much taller than me and had blond hair and dazzling green eyes. He was so sweet, too. He had accidentally pushed me into the water, and so he helped me out again. He stammered a lot as he apologized to me, and I thought that was the most adorable thing ever, so I asked if we could meet again later. He agreed, and we went out for lemonade the next day and took a romantic walk along the beach. The moon shone down and we held hands and then..." Her face flushed red. "He kissed me."

The other girl seemed impressed. "That's so romantic," she replied. "Gee, and most guys don't even notice me." She laughed, taking a bite of her chicken. "What happened after all of that?"

Amelia glanced down at her hamburger. "Since I was only visiting that area, I had to leave for school and _he_ had to leave for school. He promised me that, no matter what, we'd still be together. I...I got his name, but not his address, unfortunately, so...we can meet up next summer, though, right?"

"Oh..." Madeline frowned. "That's a bit of an unhappy ending."

"Nah." Amelia snorted. "Hasn't ended yet. We still need to do some tweaking. And, if I have anything to say about it, the tweaking will bring us together again." She grinned. "Like I've always said, I'm in control of my own life! I don't really like sitting by and letting events unfold. Nope. If I have anything to say about it, I'll meet up with him one day."

The bell rung and she stood, gathering her bags. "What class do you have next?"

Madeline looked down at her schedule. "Ugh, physics."

"Me, too!" Amelia looked pleased. "This is awesome, isn't it? Geez, I didn't think we'd share nearly every class together, Madeline!"

The other girl smiled shyly. "Uh, you can call me Maddie. All my friends do. Or...they would if I had any."

"Really? Thanks!" Amelia laughed. "You can call me Emily, which is what all my friends would call me if I had any." She walked past the courtyard with Madeline. "Guess we're in the same boat, huh?"

"Yes. I-" Madeline couldn't get anymore of that sentence out, though, for she ran into a boy who happened to cut in front of her too quickly. The impact caused her to stumble back and fall over while the boy just laughed.

Amelia helped her new friend up, then turned to glare at the boy. "You're a complete jerk!" she snapped. "Couldn't you at...at least..." Her sentence trailed off as she stared into those green eyes. "A-Arthur?"

And Arthur stopped laughing, his gang coming up behind him. "Amelia?"

They gazed at each other before Amelia decided to even look at the other boys. And she noticed the punk attire. "What...what are you _wearing?_"

"Say, Arthur, who is this?" Francis asked, raising his eyebrows. "You seem to know her quite well."

Arthur's mouth was open, staring at her, and a small blush was coloring his cheeks.

Gilbert seemed to notice what was going on. "This is the hot chick you met at the beach?" His red eyes looked the girl up and down. "You said she was a sexy bitch. You didn't mention _modest_ and..." He didn't know how else to explain it.

Amelia narrowed her eyes. "You were bragging about me?" she asked angrily. "You...you told them I was a sexy...a sexy you-know-what?"

Arthur snapped out of his trance, but it put him in a stammering mode. "N-No, it wasn't...it's not like that, I was-"

"Did you have sex with him?" Mathias asked, stomping his cigarette out on the ground. "He told us you were quite good at it, but you don't look like the normal girls he does it with."

Amelia's face was turning red and her eyes were filling up with tears. "Y-You said you loved me," she said to Arthur. "You told me you loved me and that I was the most special girl ever, and you're going around spreading _lies_ about me?"

"I swear, Amelia, I was-"

"What, you couldn't stand the fact that we actually had a romantic relationship? You couldn't stand the fact that it took you an entire week to work up the nerve to kiss me, and that was all we did? You had to go and tell all your stupid punk friends that we had sex?" And then she _was_ crying, wiping her eyes and trying to keep her composure. "You're such a jerk, Arthur."

Before he could say anything, Amelia had grabbed hold of Madeline's hand. "Let's go to class, Maddie," she said, looking so humiliated and embarrassed. Madeline didn't respond, but followed her, making certain not to loosen her grip from Amelia's hand.

And all Arthur could do was stare as his friends giggled around him.

"So your beach love was Arthur Kirkland?" Madeline asked at their small sleepover a few nights later. They hadn't really discussed the incident yet, so she was being cautious with what she said.

Amelia brushed her hair out in her mirror. "I...I guess," she mumbled. "I didn't know he was...like _that_, though. He seemed normal when we met. He didn't have the piercings and his hair was blond, he didn't smoke or drink or curse, and he was just so _nice_. Never once did he pressure me into having sex with him." She snorted. "We didn't even make out. It was just simple kissing." When she looked over at her friend, her face was filled with distress. "What am I gonna do, Maddie? Common sense tells me I should forget about him, but...he told me he would always love me and he was the first guy I ever kissed, and I don't _want_ to love him, but I do..."

Madeline moved some hair from her own face. "Um...I'm not really good with this subject," she replied, playing with her fingers. "But...I don't think you and Arthur could ever have a chance, if that doesn't sound too mean."

"Why not?" Amelia sat down beside her friend, looking curious rather than offended.

"At this school, we stick to our...our own people. Arthur sticks with his punks and those girls that hook up with the punks every so often. And you and I stick to others like _us_, the modest sort of people. That's...that's just the way things work. To date him, you'd have to be part of his world."

Amelia groaned, leaning her head back against the bed. "Why can't he be part of mine?" she complained. "He was like that at the beach. Why can't he just go back to being _that_ sort of guy?"

Madeline shrugged. "Because he's Arthur Kirkland? He's known around the school for being an arrogant punk who sleeps around. I'm shocked he went for you." She flushed when Amelia glanced at her. "Not that there's anything wrong with you, Emily, I'm just really surprised he actually chose someone _nice_ for once and based a relationship off of love rather than lust. He's never done that before."

The other girl sighed. "So...maybe there's a good chance he'll come back to me? Maybe he'll ditch those weird clothes he wears and..." But when she noticed Madeline's sad smile, she bit her lip. "That's not gonna happen, is it?"

Months passed, yet Arthur still found himself gazing at Amelia from across the courtyard every day at lunch.

Francis was the first to notice it. "It seems you haven't given up on her, have you?" he teased, rubbing his hand across Arthur's shoulder. "Arthur, come on, you know it will never work."

"Bugger off, Francis," Arthur growled. "I've _been_ over her."

Gilbert chortled at that. "Lies, Artie. We're not stupid, ya know. We can see where you're looking, and it's always at her." He crossed his arms. "What's so special about her, anyways? She's one of those goody-goody chicks. We don't hang out with them, you know that as well as I do."

"Which is why I'm not interested in her, thank you very much," Arthur snapped, shoving Francis away from him. "Will all of you just shut up about her already? It was just a little phase I had in the summer. I'm done with it, I'm back to my normal self, so just come off it and leave me alone."

Arthur Kirkland was fabulous at pouting.

Amelia, too, couldn't get over Arthur, despite the year being nearly done with. She had made two new friends, Lovina and Feliciana, sisters who contrasted each other like night and day.

"You're giving him the stupid dreamy eyes again," Lovina growled, sipping at her water. "Can't you just forget about him already? Or, if not, go out and tell him how you feel. Worst he can do is say no."

"Worst he can do is laugh in my face," Amelia muttered sadly, looking back down at her lunch. "I don't know why I'm so in love with him. It's stupid, but I really can't help it."

Feliciana grinned. "I think it's romantic," she responded. "Even if he is a punk, it's a cute relationship!"

Lovina snorted. "Yeah, 'cept there _isn't_ a relationship. There might have been, but Arthur's just a bad-ass guy who doesn't date cutesy girls like Emily."

Madeline rolled her eyes. "Ignore Lovi, Em. She likes to spew random words from her mouth just from the heck of it."

"At least I don't survive off of maple syrup."

"Which is actually very good, I'll have you know!"

Feliciana patted her sister's back. "There, there, now, Lovi! Emily can love whoever she chooses to love! Besides, I already know Arthur likes her back, even if he won't admit it." When the other girls glanced at her, Feliciana explained, "Ludwig is Gilbert's brother, and he says Gilbert always tells him that Arthur constantly stares at you, Em."

"And, yet, he won't make any sort of move." Amelia groaned, resting her head on the table. "Why can't he just break away from his stupid friends and ask me out like he did over the summer?"

Madeline shrugged. "Well...what if you had to break away from _your_ friends and ask _him_ out? Would you do it?"

"No! I could never lose you guys and go hang out with _them!_" Amelia looked shocked at the mere suggestion, then realization fell on her. "Oh..."

"Yeah." Madeline swallowed nervously. "He's probably just as loyal to his friends as you are to us. Your modesty is what you cling to. His punk, uh...nature is what he clings to. If either one of you give up your true self, you'd have to lose friends and do new things."

Amelia scratched at her cheek. "Is...is this really my true self, though?"

Lovina raised her eyebrows. "Explain."

"Well...I mean, if I could keep you guys as friends, I don't think I'd mind giving up my modesty. Arthur...I feel like he's worth it. I feel like, if I can do what he does and understand him better, I might be able to crack his shell and then _he_ could understand _me_ better."

The other three girls glanced at each other. "Well there's the fair this weekend," Madeline said. "Arthur and his friends always attend those. I think we can get you some clothes and teach you how to act in that amount of time."

"You honestly don't mind smoking?" Lovina asked.

Amelia, though looking nervous, shook her head. "N-No. I'm turning eighteen in a month, anyway, so it won't really be _too_ illegal."

Feliciana giggled. "See, I told it this would be romantic!"

On the night of the fair, Arthur sat with his friends around a table, watching the rides and listening to children laugh and play. "I made up my mind," Arthur suddenly stated.

The three boys glanced at him, and he continued. "Amelia won't be able to date me when I'm like this. I'll...I'll dress better for her. I'll try being a part of her world and...maybe I'll understand her better and we can date." He sighed, reaching up and taking his piercings out. "I love her. I know I kept telling you guys I don't, but I truly love her."

Gilbert raised his eyebrows. "You love her that much to give up being a punk?" he asked. "Seriously?"

"Yes."

"You love her that much to give up your _friends?_" Mathias prompted.

"I'm not giving you guys up." Arthur rolled his eyes. "I'll still be the same Arthur, just...a tad bit more modest."

Francis was the only one who hadn't said anything, but he poked Arthur's cheek. "If she isn't being modest, you shouldn't either."

"What the bloody hell are you talking about, Frog? Of course she's modest, she..." He followed to where Francis was pointing and laid eyes on Amelia.

Amelia decked out in punk attire. Skin-tight clothes, hair dyed red and sticking out every which way, heavy makeup, even a cigarette hanging from her mouth. Arthur felt his throat go dry, especially when she started walking towards him, her friends following behind and watching her closely.

She smirked when she saw his wide eyes and open mouth. "Evening," she greeted, her voice laced with mischief.

Arthur blinked. "A-Amelia? Is that you?" he asked, standing up.

"In the flesh," she responded, blowing smoke into his face. He coughed, waving it away, and noticed that even his best friends were completely awed with the girl's transformation.

He didn't have time to stare at her for much longer. She grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and kissed him on the lips, her tongue instantly exploring the inside of his mouth. When she pulled back, she pouted. "You're not wearing your tongue ring," she said.

Arthur felt his lips turn up in a grin. "Well, we should probably try that again, then," he said, pulling his piercings from his pocket. But, before doing anything else, he grabbed her arm. "Not here, though." He gestured around to their gawking friends. "We need some privacy."

And he winked at her and she knew what that meant, and though she blushed slightly, she nodded her head, completely determined. "Agreed."

* * *

**I'm not a big fan of this one.**


	12. Romantic at Heart

**Genre: Humor/Romance**

**Rating: PG**

**Summary: England isn't really known for being romantic. However, he would much rather prefer to save it all for one special country.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

England was really big on being romantic. It might have been a result of centuries hanging around France and Spain, who, people say, made the best of lovers, but he had really acquired some sort of silly romantic notations and ideas down his path of life.

Not that he ever put them into play, of course. Most countries England had been with said he never did anything to show how romantic he was. Despite their hopes and dreams of the small island nation having the same sort of eloquence as his Shakespeare plays, England failed them. Time and time again.

Soon, he just became known as 'that bitter nation who never shows any sort of romance'. An awful title to have, really, for one who was indeed romantic at heart.

England's problem, though, was that he wanted to only be romantic towards the one he loved.

When he was with some random country, be it France or Spain or Prussia or, yes, even Denmark sometimes, he never showed any 'romantic feelings', because those weren't the nations he had romantic feelings for.

No, he only had eyes for America.

America, the purest, most untouched country of them all, save for his northern brother (Canadia, or something like that) and most all of the micronations (and Sealand had _better_ be pure, otherwise England would go pirate on someone's ass).

He was just _perfect_. America was simply a god trapped in a nation's body. _That_ was the special nation who had captured England's heart so. _He _was the nation who England would show how bloody romantic he could truly be.

It was all a simple matter of, "America, would you like to come to dinner with me tomorrow night?"

America looked up from his greasy hamburger, mouth stuffed with meat and bun. "Uh..." He swallowed first, which greatly relieved England- obviously his hour-long lectures went to good use. "Sure? I guess. I dunno, depends on where we're goin'."

Depends on where they're going? England's eyebrow twitched. Okay, so obviously America was in this for the food, not for England's company. The bastard. Still, England wasn't going to back down. He was determined to follow through with this plan.

He was a go-getter, for heaven's sakes! (Actually, he wasn't sure if he was or not, it just sounded pretty nifty when he exclaimed it in his mind.)

"It's fine dining," was all the information England would give him. He wanted America to be surprised. "Wear a suit. Comb your hair. And, for the love of god, please eat correctly." That last part was added when he noticed America stuffing fries in his mouth like they were about to get up and walk away.

America swallowed, making England feel all the more pleased, before speaking. "I'm hungry and you're boring," he muttered.

"I'm boring, hm? Well, why don't you tell me that next time I offer you out to eat? I'm paying for you to have a free meal, America, couldn't you at least-"

"_Fine_," America snapped, wiping his hands on his jeans (and England's pleasure dove right back down to earth). "Geez, you complain too much, old man." The superpower stood, once again confirming the fact that he was so tall and so handsome and so pure (although England could do without the name calling and rude attitude sometimes). "Uh, are you picking me up?"

England nodded. "Yes," he said, deciding to ignore the 'old man' comment for now. "Six-thirty, tomorrow evening. I expect you to look nice."

He turned and began to walk away, ignoring America when he asked, "Wait, how come we're eating at some fancy-shmancy place?"

When England picked America up at the _exact_ time he had stated (England was all about being precise, something America could use a lesson on), America was still trying to fix his hair.

"It's Nantucket," the younger one complained, glaring at that one strand in the mirror. "It never lies down properly, and you're always telling me how Nantucket makes me look messy."

Then England felt bad. Did he really? Oh. He actually thought it looked pretty adorable and innocent and just so America-like. "Well, it's no use trying if it won't cooperate," he muttered, taking the comb from America's hands and attempting to fix it himself. "Besides, you look alright. I must say, you clean up rather nice."

America grinned and England felt ecstatic that it was _him_ who brought on that grin. "Don't I? I even took a picture of myself and sent it to Mattie to see if he thought I was okay. He said, and I do quote, 'you look less like a pig, Alfred'." For some reason, America seemed proud of that fact. "He always calls me a pig, 'cause he says I eat too much and I dress sloppily."

And England didn't know how to respond to that since he thought the exact same thing. "Yes, well, you look quite spiffy. Never mind what Cana says."

"Canada."

"Mm, yes, I said that."England sighed, glancing at his watch. "Well, shall we be off? We have a tight schedule, and I'd actually like to follow it closely, though I doubt you really care much about keeping to the time."

America blinked. "Nah, I'm cool with time. I keep to it like I keep to bacon."

England didn't even question that sentence.

They climbed in the car, one of England's nicer ones, and drove off, a silence falling between them.

"So," America tapped on the dashboard, glancing out the window at the evening sky. "What is this fancy-shamncy place we're going to?"

"Oh, it's just a fine dining restaurant that I've always been interested in anytime I come to America. I would have felt silly going by myself, though, since most people who enter into this place are couples."

America nodded. "So, I'm, like, your date?"

...Oops? England didn't mean for that one to slip. His hands tightened just a tad on the steering wheel. "Well, not...not if you don't _want_ to be. I could honestly care less what you choose to view us as at the moment. I just want to eat there."

The younger country raised his eyebrows. "Are you using me, then?"

England gritted his teeth. This was going downhill. "As I said, America, view this however you want to view this. I want the food."

"Geez, that sounds like me. The food part, I mean, not the 'view this however blah blah' part." America grinned and leaned back in his seat, playing with the cuffs of his suit. "They'd better have good food. I mean, if you're gonna be using me and pretending that I'm your date. 'Cause you _know_I have a policy of 'no love, no date', right?"

Actually, he hadn't known, but he figured he'd best pretend he did. "Oh, yes, of course."

"Then if you knew, _why_ am I your date?"

This conversation was ridiculous. "America, you're not my date. I just wanted company while I eat here. And shut up, I'm giving you a free meal. If anything, lad, you ought to be rather grateful to me."

"Hey, I give you free meals all the time!"

"McDonald's hardly counts."

"I bought you Burger King once!"

"Oh. Must have slipped my mind."

America caught the sarcasm in England's voice and remained quiet in the car for the rest of the drive. England hated it. Actually, if he wanted to be specific, he hated himself. Not only did he tell America that this _wasn't_ a date, when it obviously was, but he managed to snap at and mock the younger nation already. And they hadn't even made it to the restaurant yet.

Once they _did_ arrive, England was ready to blow up from the awkward silence that filled his car. "We're here," he stated, stepping out.

America, however, had already climbed from the car. "Yeah. I kinda figured when you parked here," he grumbled, still looking irritated.

England sighed and looped his arm around America's, all but dragging him through the doors. "Come along," he growled. "Reservations for two, please." And he did finally let go of America while the host led them to his reserved table, but only because America started pulling away and he didn't want to cause a scene.

America, though, seemed to want just that.

"I can't pronounce any of these names," he complained, looking at the menu. "I think it's in a foreign language."

"Italian," England supplied, pointing to the front of the menu. "It says so right there."

America blushed just slightly, and England found it so endearing. "Oh," he said, scratching at his cheek. "Well, I mean, I...I noticed it, I was just, ya know, kinda testing you to see if _you_ knew."

And the entire thing was just too precious for England not to smile at. "Oh, but of course," he said, meeting America's eyes. "Thank you very much for making sure my reading skills are sharp."

It wasn't supposed to sound sarcastic, but America must have taken it the wrong way. "Wow, and thank _you _for mocking me," he mumbled, glaring at England's soft gaze. "You know what, while you're at it, why don't you just let me order everything from the menu so you can tell the other countries how fat I am?"

"America, I don't think you're fat," England hissed, trying to lower his voice when people started looking.

"Yeah, well, the other countries all call me fat."

England rolled his eyes. This really wasn't going as planned. "That's just because they find a weak point and continue prodding it. It's how countries work, America. Why, you think I get off easy? I'm always teased for my height or how unattractive I am or-"

"Who the hell says you're unattractive?" America demanded.

England blinked. "Um, w-well...you know, just my usual tormenters. Why does it bother you so much?"

But America realized his mistake and blushed, glancing back down at his menu. "No reason. I just wanted to know so, um...we could exchange notes."

Instead of getting mad like he normally would have, though, England eyed America curiously, noticing the blush and the frantic stare. Huh. "Lovely," he muttered dryly. "So, shall I help you choose a meal?"

Dinner passed by without much more incident. America, of course, ordered the biggest and most expensive thing he could find and left England wondering just how many stomachs that boy had, especially after England got a dessert for the two of them to share.

"Alright, home next?" America asked, sliding into the car.

England shook his head. "Just a quick stop somewhere," he said, driving away from the restaurant and feeling that the entire evening wasn't yet a waste of money. America seemed a lot livelier and happier, and that slip he gave still had England wondering how the younger man felt about him. "I have something to show you."

America laughed. "If it's another fairy tree, I'm not all that interested."

"No, no, it's better. I promise." He continued driving and another silence fell over the car. This silence, though, was comfortable and England actually found himself enjoying it. He spared a glance over at America, whose face was illuminated from the street lamps they were passing, his cheek pressed up against the window and his eyes on the night sky above them. He looked so peaceful, and England wasn't willing to break that peace to talk until they arrived at their destination.

He parked, climbing out and straightening his suit.

"Yes, this is the spot."

America, too, climbed out, looking around with wonder. "It's a field," he said.

Obviously.

"It seems to be a field, yes." England nodded. "America, why haven't you built anything on this particular field?"

America shrugged. "Dunno." But he knew. He looked away from both England and the field, keeping his eyes on the ground.

"America, this is where we met."

"Is it really?"

"America..." England stepped closer and lifted America's chin up, staring into those amazing sky-blue eyes. "Ever since you came into my life, it has changed for the better. No longer am I the insane empire I used to be. I have a clear mind, now, I do what's right, and that's because _you_ taught me how to do what's right. You, America. Barely a child. A mere toddler taught the greatest empire in the world that doing right and having a kind heart are the best things that anyone could ever have."

His hand brushed over America's cheeks, surprised that the superpower hadn't yet spoken. "I'm still sore over your independence. I doubt that will ever change. However, I now know that there was a reason you broke away. I tried protecting you from what I truly was, but as you grew up, you became so smart. Such a bright, young lad. You began telling me I needed to give you a place in parliament, that my taxes were far too great for your citizens, that you wanted to be a free country."

England smiled sadly. "And I laughed at you. I pushed aside the letters you gave me. You tried breaking away peacefully. You told me you didn't want to go to war. But, then you told me you would if you had to, and I completely underestimated how strong and brave and true to your word you were. You fought me and you won, fair and square." He chuckled. "Imagine that. A small colony like yourself defeating one of the greatest empires in the world."

"I had help," America mumbled.

"Yes, but it was still you. I believe you would have won without any help. It might have taken longer, yes, but I know true strength when I see it, America. You were so patriotic and full of ideas and..." He ran his fingers down America's neck, trailed them along his chest until he touched the place where he knew his heart rest. "And you're still the exact same. Grown up, yes, but I can still see that childish innocence and faithful endurance that I saw the day when we met, at this very same spot."

He gave America a chance to speak, since America liked speaking. And words didn't fail to come. Not the words England would have chosen after such a heartfelt conversation, but words, nonetheless. "We have a car this time."

England laughed. "We do," he said, taking his hand away from America's chest. "The world has changed a lot, hasn't it."

"Yeah." America smirked."You haven't, though."

"And neither have you."

"You said that already."

"Did I? My apologies."

But words failed America this time. They stood together, a bit awkwardly now, before America finally said, "Uh, what now?"

England frowned. "Actually, I'm a bit unsure. This is as far as I had it planned out in my head."

America clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Not a very well-thought out plan, is it?" he asked, though there was a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his lips (which was a very poetic thing to say, so England decided to remember that and write it down somewhere later, just so he could read over it again and be reminded of America on this night).

"Ah, I'm afraid not." He sighed. "Well, can't be helped, I guess. This is my fault that we're standing here nervously."

"You're nervous," America said. "I'm not."

"Oh? What are you, then?"

"Smitten."

And smitten was a good thing to be. England laughed again, and it felt so nice to laugh around America. "Oh? How did that work out? Was it the dinner or the field or my speech I gave?"

"None." America grinned. "It's the fact that you're nervous."

England raised his eyebrows. "Oh? So, you're smitten at how nervous I am?"

"Right on, Detective England." America gave a fake salute, sticking his tongue out.

"Well, might I be smitten, as well?" England asked, quickly wrapping his hand around America's hand before he chickened out.

Luckily, America gripped it right back. "What caused _you_ to be smitten?" he asked. "My hair? My stupid question at dinner? My complete eloquence out here?"

"None of the above, actually. It's the fact that I actually got to touch your cheek."

"So, like, you have a cheek-touching kink?" America nodded. "Huh. Strange."

And, for a third time that evening, England felt himself laughing. "America, why are you so bloody awkward to talk to?" he asked, leaning forward and kissing the younger country's nose and smiling when he saw yet another blush form.

America shrugged. "Uh...'cause sometimes I really don't know what to say? Especially when this hot and sexy guy is right in front of me looking like he wants to make out with me under the stars and taint this poor field with our...whatever the word is."

"Not sure what word you're searching for, but you pretty much got everything else right," England said with a smirk.

"But didn't I tell you? If I don't love, I don't date."

"And if you do love?"

America smiled at that and wrapped his arms around England, having to break the hand contact to do so. "If I do love, I kiss 'em senseless."

England, though pleased, found himself blushing and was thankful for the dark night to cover it. "And what shall you do with me?"

America leaned forward and slowly kissed England's lips, closing his eyes and positioning his head for better access. "I'm gonna kiss you senseless," he breathed.

And that was romantic enough for England.


	13. Just Say It

**Genre: Romance**

**Rating: PG**

**Summary: Alfred can't help but be in love with Arthur.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

They met in a dimly lit bar, each drinking to try and drown away their sorrows. Blue eyes met green eyes and they instantly scooted closer to each other.

"What do you do for a living?" Alfred asked, gazing down at his cheap beer.

Arthur, who had opted for the rum, gave a smirk. "Why don't you tell me about your occupation, first, love," he said, his voice slurred already.

Alfred smiled. He could play this game. "I'm a pilot," he stated. "Just got a leave, and since America is too costly of a trip, I figured I might as well come to _some_ country where people speak English."

"Mm, and you chose England? But it's in slight ruins."

"Okay, where _else_ am I gonna find people who speak English?" America shrugged. "Besides, it's not as bad as it once was. I can see you guys have been trying to clean up. Plus, since the Americans entered the war, you haven't been bombed as much."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Oh, it's always the _Americans_. Bloody _Americans_ and their charm and stamina. They have no idea what sort of hell the British have gone through, what with France suddenly surrendering and-"

"I get it, I get it." Alfred blinked. He had never seen anyone get so drunk so quickly. "Anyway, what are you?"

Halting his rant, Arthur smiled. "I happen to be a dancer."

"Cool!" Alfred looked excited. "Like, a tap dancer? Do you dance to jazz music? Or a background dancer for some-"

"Exotic."

"What does that mean?"

Arthur just laughed. "Americans and their innocence," he muttered, which caused Alfred to groan.

"I mean...I _know_ what an exotic dancer is, I just didn't know that men could become exotic dancers."

"It's possible. We have some, er...less well-known clubs that cater to the needs of young men who aren't particularly interested in women."

Alfred blew out a breath of air. "Details aren't needed," he muttered, motioning for the bartender to grab him another beer. "So, uh...you're gay?"

Arthur grinned. "Lad, I strip while dancing and let men put money down my knickers. Yes, I would say that I'm quite gay."

"So, you're a stripper?"

Arthur drank some rum. "All the same," he said. "At least where I work. I guess you could say that we do just a little bit of everything."

"Sex?"

"No." Arthur shook his head. "No, no, no. There is, in fact, a policy that states the men who work at the club do _not_ have to engage in any sort of sexual activities. Are they allowed to? Yes. Some, though, don't wish to do that and they aren't forced to. I'm one of those men who never have sex with the customers. I'm a dancer, a stripper, a whatever-you-wish-to-call-me, but I'm not some sort of man-whore." He snorted. "If the lads who come to our club wish for that sort of pleasure, they're far better off traveling down to where the prostitutes hang about."

Looking just a bit more relaxed around Arthur (he had stiffened when the Englishman stated his occupation), Alfred replied, "Oh. I was just wondering, you know." He smiled. "So, uh..._have_ you ever had sex?"

Arthur was quiet for a few seconds, staring at the wall ahead of him. "Once," he finally muttered. "There was one instance where some man offered me money to have sex with him. I was desperate at the time. I didn't think it through. I hadn't eaten in two full days and I lived out on the streets. He was kind to me, and he had a small amount of money and..." He sent a shaky smile over to Alfred. "It wasn't worth what he put me through."

Alfred could only stare back, his heart going out to the elder man next to him. Arthur was suddenly looking so small and vulnerable. Gone was the cockiness and arrogance. Now, the man just seemed anxious.

"I'm sorry," Alfred whispered, reaching his hand out and placing it over top of Arthur's. "I truly am."

Arthur looked up at him, his green eyes brimming with tears, either from the alcohol or Alfred's sincerity. Or both. "Don't be," he murmured. "It's in the past."

Although Arthur assured Alfred that he was fine, the American pilot refused to believe that. One look at the expression told him otherwise. From that moment onward, Alfred made it his own personal mission to spend as much time as possible with the Englishman. Arthur showed him around town, pointing out which parts were once magnificent buildings, pointing out someone's house and how they were probably dead, pointing out his own special places that were now nothing more than a sad cluster of rubble.

He even invited Alfred to attend his club once, though Alfred had to decline that offer. Seeing Arthur dancing like that with other men stuffing money into his clothes was quite the uncomfortable scene to imagine.

And after an entire week had passed, Alfred felt closer to Arthur than he had ever been to anyone. And his friends were noticing.

"You spend so much time with him, you talk so much about him, you always look dreamy-eyed..." Matthew smirked. "Face it, Alfred, you're in love."

Alfred blushed. "Am not!" he exclaimed. "That's weird for me to be in love with a guy! And wrong, right? The army won't allow it."

"The army doesn't have to know," Matthew pointed out. "Just tell him already. Maybe that'll get you to stop having those big, googly eyes anytime you mention his name."

But, despite Matthew's words, Alfred couldn't tell Arthur. Even when he was going back to fight and Arthur came to see him off, Alfred found that his mouth was too dry to say those three simple words. "S-So, we...we'll meet each other again, right?" Alfred asked, taking in Arthur's appearance (for a male stripper, he wore the most modest clothing Alfred had ever seen on anyone below the age of fifty).

"Of course," Arthur said, raising one, large eyebrow. "You actually believe I'll let you finish the war without seeing me ever again?"

Alfred laughed. "No. I guess not." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Um, w-well...I wanted to...no, I don't want-"

"I love you, Alfred," Arthur whispered, quickly kissing the palm of his hand and pressing it to the American's chest. He drew back once he did that small gesture, making sure no one had seen. "You come back safe, you hear?"

Alfred blushed, unsure of how to respond to that. "Y-Yeah, I hear. And, I...I l-" He stopped himself, biting his lip. "I'll miss you."

However, Arthur seemed to catch Alfred's drift. "Coward," he snorted. "When you come back home, you'd better say it. I know you want to. Your eyes are the window to your soul, Alfred."

And all Alfred could do was blush even more, salute, and walk away hurriedly, his heart thumping in his chest and his lips turning up in a grin.

For now, he was good with admitting his love to himself and himself alone.

* * *

**Hate this one...**


	14. Visits

**Genre: Romance/Angst**

**Rating: PG- slight cursing, major character death**

**Summary: Alfred has leukemia, and Arthur knows it's dangerous to get too close to the boy.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

The first thing Arthur noticed about the boy was how tired he looked. Dark circles were under his eyes, his skin was such a pale complexion, and he moved sluggishly. However, being tired didn't stop him from sitting down next to Arthur in the waiting room of the hospital they were both in. "Hey," the kid greeted.

"Hello." Arthur gave a courteous nod.

"What are you doing here?"

Arthur gestured to the hallway. "I'm going to be an uncle shortly."

"Really? Me, too!" The kid grinned. "My sister-in-law is giving birth soon. Geez, I didn't think I was old enough to be an uncle."

Arthur chuckled. "I simply didn't think any of my siblings would ever get married, even. All of them are giant wankers."

Alfred's eyebrows were raised. "That's, like, such a British thing to say."

"Makes sense, considering I _am_ British."

"Yeah. Guess so." Alfred laughed, then shrugged his shoulders. "Um, so what's your name?"

"Arthur. Arthur Kirkland. Yourself?"

"Alfred F. Jones!" Alfred smiled. "Pleased to meet you!"

"Likewise." Arthur smiled. "What does the F. stand for?"

Alfred grinned. "It's a secret!" he exclaimed, sounding quite cheerful for someone who was keeping a secret. "So, uh...how old are you? Fifty?"

Arthur bristled up indignantly. "Fifty?" he repeated. "I'll have you know, I'm not a day over twenty-three! Honestly." Huffing a tad, he muttered, "And I suppose you must be some high school student who thinks that the age of twenty is such an old age to be."

"Nah. I'm nearly there myself." Alfred patted Arthur's shoulder. "I'm nineteen. And I was just joking with ya, okay? I know you're not fifty."

When Arthur glanced over, he noticed a large bruise on Alfred's wrist. "What happened there?" he asked, avoiding talking about their age differences. "That looks painful."

"Hm?" Alfred pulled his hand back and glanced down at the bruise. "Oh. Huh. I dunno. Must have hit my hand on a chair or something. I don't think this one was here this morning."

Arthur blinked. "This one? How many do you have? And how could you have possibly gotten a bruise of this size from your hand simply hitting a chair?"

And Alfred just grinned again. "I bruise easily," he said. "Comes with having leukemia."

Arthur was speechless. He simply stared at the young American, green eyes widening when he realized exactly what Alfred meant. "I...I'm terribly sorry."

"Don't be. 'Snot your fault." Alfred kept his hand in his lap, gazing right back at Arthur.

"How long have you, er...had leukemia?"

Alfred scratched at his cheek. "Too long. Got it some years back, when I was a kid. They managed to make it all go away, but...I guess it wanted to return, so...yeah. I actually go in for some chemotherapy in two days. Kinda nervous, even if I remember doing that back as a kid." He looked around the room for a second. "They, uh, said that this form is some sort of higher risk form, and..." He trailed off.

Arthur felt just a little bit sick to his stomach hearing that. From what he could see, Alfred was such a bright, young lad. He didn't deserve this. "May I visit you?" he asked. When Alfred glanced over, Arthur blushed but continued. "Whenever I'm sick, I actually like having visitors. I like knowing that people care about me like that. I don't think you ought to be alone when you're sick."

Rather than brush him aside, Alfred grinned. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'd like that." He took out his phone, pressing a few buttons before handing it to Arthur. "That's my number and my address. You can just call before dropping in, since I'm sometimes away at hospitals for some treatment and checkups and stuff."

Arthur copied it all down in his own cell phone, listening as Alfred rambled on and on and wondering if this new friendship would be safe for them to have.

He visited two weeks later, after calling multiple times to find Alfred away, busy, or sick. And he himself had to make sure that he wasn't sick. Alfred told him that his immune system was weak and he had a horribly high chance of getting incredibly ill if Arthur so much as sneezed while visiting.

But, once they were both free, Arthur was greeted warmly by Mr. and Mrs. Jones and led to the living room, where Alfred sat waiting.

The first thing Arthur noticed was how little hair Alfred had.

Deciding not to comment on that, Arthur took a seat across from his friend. "Good afternoon," he greeted warmly. "Are you, er, feeling okay today?"

"Other than all my awesome hair being gone, yeah." Alfred sighed, patting at his nearly-bald head. "I didn't think my hair would go _that _quickly. It sucks."

Arthur shook his head. "You still look fine to me," he stated.

"My glasses make me look like a dork now. They were cool when I had hair, but now I just look stupid."

"I beg to differ." Arthur folded his arms across his lap. "Alfred, you look just fine, alright?" However, Alfred _really_ didn't look all that fine. With the hair gone, the dark circles around his eyes were much more noticeable.

Alfred grinned. "Yeah, that's what Mattie said. He even shaved his hair off to, I dunno, support me, I guess."

"Mattie?"

"Oh, my brother. You know, the one whose wife had the kid the other week. Oh, and they named the kid Jonathan Alfred Jones." Alfred smiled proudly. "See? They even named a kid after me."

The next time they met, just a few days later, Arthur had also shaved his head.

He didn't expect Alfred to burst into tears at the sight.

"Y-You didn't h-have to," the younger man sobbed into his hands. "Y-You barely kn-know me, a-and...oh, gosh, wh-why?"

Arthur had crossed over to Alfred's seat and hugged him softly. "I would like to consider you my friend, Alfred. And any sort of friend would do this."

Alfred hadn't hugged back, but he did bury his head into Arthur's shoulder. "M-My friends from the university didn't. Th-They just stared at me funny when I we-went back on one of th-those rare days." He continued crying, grasping at Arthur's arms. "Th-The doctors said I pr-probably wouldn't make it, Arthur. I don't wanna die. Please don't let me d-die. It's n-not fair!"

Arthur couldn't help it when a lone tear escaped his own eye. "I'll be right here, Alfred," he whispered, running his hands up and down Alfred's back. "I'll be here for you the entire time. I won't let you go."

The visits became more and more frequent, until Arthur was practically over at Alfred's house everyday. Alfred's parents even started allowing him to take Alfred to his treatments, what with how good of friends they became. And, whenever Arthur's hair started growing back, he shaved it off again, making sure Alfred was never alone, just as he had promised.

"Thanks for grabbing these for me," Alfred said one night when they sat together eating McDonald's- a burger for Alfred and a salad for Arthur. "I haven't had McDonald's in a long time. Mom said the meat was probably bad for me at this point."

"Oh. Well, then you probably shouldn't eat it."

But Alfred waved Arthur off. "Nah, I'm good. Doctor said my diet won't really affect me much. Mom's just paranoid." He gave a nervous smile. "Besides, if they don't think I'm gonna make it, I might as well eat what I want, right? "

"You quit talking like that, Alfred," Arthur snapped at him, turning a glare his way. "You'll make it. I know you will, Alfred. You're such a strong, young man, and there is no way that your life is to be taken this early. I swear it. I won't let you die. I _won't_." His eyes flashed with determination, and Alfred blinked, looking a bit surprised.

"Dude, chill yourself. I was just, like...making a joke."

Arthur didn't want to 'chill himself', though. Not when there was the possibility that Alfred would die. Not when Alfred himself believed he would die. "Don't even _joke_ about something like that," he snapped, looking down at his salad. "Please. Just don't."

A small silence fell over them before Alfred whispered, "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking." He glanced around his living room, unsure of what to do or say. "This burger's good."

"I'm glad."

"Your bald head makes your eyebrows look even bigger than usual."

Arthur's gaze flickered up to the American, cheeks growing red from both anger (at the comment) and pleasure (at Alfred's amused face). "Bugger off, git. I'll try trimming them, to make you feel better."

"Don't do that!" Alfred exclaimed, shaking his head. "It...It wouldn't be right if you did that."

Arthur picked at his salad. "And why the bloody hell not?"

Alfred shrugged. "Dunno. You wouldn't be the same old guy if you trimmed your eyebrows. They're, like, a part of you."

"My eyebrows are a part of me?" Arthur deadpanned. "Really?"

The American smirked."Well, when you say it like that, um...maybe that was the wrong choice of words on my part?"

"Obviously," Arthur snorted. "But, if you insist, I won't trim these hideous monsters."

For some reason, Alfred looked relieved. "Thanks," he said, giving Arthur a sincere smile. Arthur felt his cheeks turn red for a different reason.

He didn't want to admit it, but he was falling for the American. He was falling hard and fast, even if he didn't want to fall hard _or_ fast. "He's a high-risk patient," he found himself telling his co-worker one day when they were supposed to be typing out some article together. "I'm just...I'm always worried that he'll die."

Francis twirled a few locks of his shoulder-length hair around his finger. "But you want something more than a friendship, _oui?_"

"No!" Arthur shook his head. "No. No, I'm perfectly fine with just being his friend. Friendship is a place I don't mind being."

"Arthur, you talk about him nonstop."

"I'm just worried, like I already told you."

"Worried that he'll die without you ever admitting that you love him?"

Arthur slammed his hands into the desk, attracting the attention of a few other workers. "Dammit, Francis, I don't love him! He's my friend!"

Francis smirked. "Whatever you say."

But the more Arthur thought on it, the more he began to realize that there just _might_ be something there. Anytime he hung out with Alfred now, he felt like blushing. Anytime the younger boy smiled at him, his heart skipped a beat. And, whenever they made any sort of contact, Arthur's skin tingled all along his body.

It went on like this, for five or six months, before that one day when Arthur was called to the hospital. Alfred hadn't been doing too well lately before, and Arthur guessed something happened that caused the doctors to worry enough to send him to the hospital.

Naturally, Arthur panicked.

"If only I had been there," he said, pacing Alfred's room. "I might have done something to stop it. I might have been able to...to ward it off or _something_, and then you wouldn't be-"

"Dude. Chill." Alfred's normally bright voice was so weak, so very weak. Arthur felt his heart cracking, and he was afraid it would fully break when Alfred reached over and grabbed his hand, a grin coming to his tired face. "I'm just having a down week, is all. It'll pass. Like you said, I ain't dying soon."

Arthur wished he could be as confident as Alfred. "Y-Yes, I know," he whispered, squeezing Alfred's hand.

In return, the boy said, "Arthur, you got someone you like?"

Taken back, the Englishman blinked. "W-W-Well...I...maybe. I don't...why?"

Alfred laughed, but he soon started to cough and Arthur leaned forward, so worried and so upset. "Because...I wanna know that, uh...that you'll be happy with someone. We hang out a lot, like, whenever you have free time and stuff, and I wanna know that you'll be able to hang out with someone you _really_ care about."

Arthur stared at the American, trying to comprehend just what exactly he was saying. "Alfred, I really care about you."

Alfred smiled. "I mean, like...like love, Arthur. I want you to find someone to love." His grasp became tighter on Arthur's hand. "Promise me that? When you come back tomorrow, promise me that the person you like will know you love them?"

"I...I don't know about love, Alfred. I don't...I don't know if I can tell this person. I just don't know if I have the courage to go through with that." Because it was him. Because Arthur didn't know if he could tell Alfred, especially when he wasn't even sure.

"You can do it. I'm living for you, remember? So, you'll tell someone of your love." He shifted around a bit, letting out a gasp as he did so. When Arthur made a move to help him, Alfred shook his head. "I got it," he whispered. "I'm...I'm fine. But...you'll tell someone, promise? You'll tell this crush of yours, promise?"

And Arthur was going to promise, promise to do it someday, but Matthew entered the room at that moment. "Hey," he said, noticing how close the two were together.

Arthur drew back, rubbing at his cheek. "O-Oh, hello, Matthew. Um..." He glanced at the two brothers as Matthew gave him a smile. "Well, I'll...I'll be leaving you two alone now. I'll visit you tomorrow, Alfred." He gave the boy an awkward glance. "Right? Is tomorrow fine?"

"Tomorrow's awesome," Alfred responded. "But...remember your promise?"

Arthur hesitated, but when he noticed the pleading gaze Alfred gave him, he finally relented. "I promise."

He would do it. As he tossed and turned in bed that night, punching his pillow to try and get more comfortable, Arthur realized that he had to. He would tell Alfred of his true feelings. He would tell Alfred just how much he loved him. He had to. He _had_ made a promise, after all, and a Kirkland never went back on his word.

His mind was clear when he finally drifted off into sleep, into a land of dreams, where Alfred had a full head of hair and his blue eyes were bright and his skin had this soft, tan glow to it and he wasn't too skinny or too bruised and he was running and laughing and playing in the fields, just as he had always said he wanted to do. And Arthur himself was there.

Alfred grabbed his hands, still laughing, and Arthur, just as he would have done in the real world, blushed and sputtered, but Alfred didn't seem to care. The boy just kept laughing. And laughing some more. Even if it was a dream, it was such a joyful sound and Arthur never wanted it to be lost. He wanted to capture the laughter, capture how amazing Arthur looked today, and keep it with him forever. Forever and ever and ever.

His dream ended around four that morning, with a sobbing Matthew on the other end. Once Arthur heard the words, "Arthur? It's...it's Alfred..." his heart plummeted. It sunk and he felt numb.

"Oh, god," he choked out. "He...is he...?"

"H-he didn't make it."

And Arthur felt himself shaking, swinging his feet out of bed and literally shaking. "God, no. No," he whispered.

Matthew was obviously trying to stay calm for Arthur, but it wasn't working. "I-I'm sorry. I...I n-need to go. My...my mom is..." He gave another sob. "I gotta go."

Arthur was alone, staring at his cell phone and shaking his head. It couldn't be true. He was so _happy_ in his dream. They were together and everything was the way it should have been, and Alfred couldn't go like that. He didn't deserve to go like that.

Unable to control himself any longer, Arthur screamed out his anguish, throwing his phone across the room and caring less when it shattered. He stood, only to fall down on the floor, his knees hitting the hardwood floor with a thump. And then he began weeping, breaking down completely. He didn't want Alfred to be dead. "I promised," he choked. "I fucking promised, I had to tell him that I loved him."

But nothing he said was of any use. Nothing he threw would ever bring Alfred back. Nothing he did was going to make everything okay. No, Alfred was gone, and he had taken along Arthur's heart.

The days until the funeral were spent alone in his room. Alfred's family came to visit, all of them trying to hold back tears. Francis visited, bring along Gilbert and Antonio, who tried comforting him, but Arthur felt too numb to do anything other than sit there. He cried himself to sleep each night, knowing the friendship was dangerous, knowing that, should he have never asked to see Alfred after the day they met, his heart wouldn't have torn out of his chest.

When he was put in the cemetery, the day was bright and sunny, a complete contrast to the mood everyone felt.

Arthur stayed there until every last guest was gone, even Alfred's own family. Matthew had offered to drive him home, but Arthur refused, choosing instead to stand by Alfred's grave and deliver his promise.

"It's a few days late," he muttered, standing over the gravestone. "I really should have told you much sooner. I knew I felt something much sooner, but...I didn't know how...how I could tell you." He bit his tongue, trying to stop from crying. "You were...you were something special in my life, Alfred. From that moment you sat down with me in the hospital, all those months ago, something...so-something changed."

The tears started flowing, but Arthur didn't stop. "And I tried not to love you. I knew that there was always going to be the possibility that you would die, but I sh-should have told you. I should have told you and...now you're gone." He took a deep breath. "I loved you. You were the one I loved, Alfred. And I do love you, even if you're gone, I love you so much. So...s-so much." He wiped his tears away, now just trying not to bawl. "And my promise is late. Far too late. You deserved to know much sooner than this. And I never got to tell you goodbye, and we never got to ride that roller coaster you wanted to ride, and maybe if I hadn't kept saying 'later', maybe if I started saying 'alright', you...I should have just...oh, god, Alfred, I'm so sorry. I told you I would protect you and I didn't." He gazed up at the sky, that infuriating sky. And he couldn't say anymore. He simply stood there, taking deep breaths and letting the breeze float on past him.

He felt better. He, surprisingly enough, felt better. "I'll never stop loving you, Alfred. Even if you never had the chance to hear me say it, even if I never _gave_ you the chance to hear me say it, you were the one I loved. And I promised, and I told you, and..."

And now he felt better. He smiled through watery eyes, bending down and brushing his fingers across the name inscribed; Alfred F. Jones. He imagined Alfred's grin at the mention of his middle name. "It's a secret!" a voice said in his mind. It was so cheerful, so lively, that Arthur chuckled, more tears flowing down his cheeks.

"I'll visit you tomorrow, Alfred."


	15. The Key to Trusting

**Genre: Romance/Hurt/Comfort**

**Rating: PG-13: Language, mentions of sex**

**Summary: When Alfred buys a frog, Arthur completely overreacts. In the same universe as chapter 3, ****_Our Sort of Love._**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

Arthur was given the key to Alfred's apartment. This was the final step in their relationship- a key meant complete trust and faith. At least, that's what it meant to Arthur. His eyes were shining when Alfred handed it to him, and he found himself stuttering over his words. "Th-Thank you, Alfred. Oh, thank you so much!"

The American looked confused. "It's just a key," he said. "The key to my apartment. Not like, the key to Narnia or something." When Arthur looked up at him, Alfred added, "That's in my wardrobe."

Arthur decided not to add that the only reason Alfred _had_ a wardrobe was because he liked telling people that he had access to Narnia. "Mm, yes, but this key feels special, like I'm unlocking something new."

"The only other key you got is the key to my heart," Alfred exclaimed, placing his hand over his chest and shaking his head dramatically.

"Really." Arthur rolled his eyes, looking entirely unamused. "Yes, yes, I suppose I have the key to your heart. And you have the key to mine, if you want to be completely and utterly cheesy like that."

Alfred nodded. "Yeah, I do. Alright, so you're gonna come visit me whenever you like, alright? No need to call or nothing. Just open my door like we're some married couple and yell, 'Honey, I'm home!'"

Arthur smirked. "Minus that greeting," he said. "I'll do just that."

And so he did- minus the greeting, of course. He began allowing himself into Alfred's apartment whenever he wanted to. Sometimes Alfred would be cooking, other times he'd be taking a nap on his couch. No matter what he was doing, though, he would always put away some of his time to entertain Arthur, be it a new story about his day or a billion questions about Arthur's day.

It was really nice to be this close, Arthur had to admit.

Then there came a day where he opened the door and Alfred was nowhere to be seen. There was something else in the room, though, other than one of Alfred's cats (he was actually up to four now, and Arthur had no idea if the apartment even _allowed_ pets, but Alfred loved his cats and Arthur wasn't complaining).

A frog.

A frog sat in a large aquarium, staring back at Arthur with it's large, unblinking eyes, it's throat expanding with each breath it took.

Arthur slammed his back up against the closed door. "Alfred!" he yelled. "Alfred bloody Jones, get over here right now or..." He froze when the frog made a sound. Then his yells turned to a scream. "Alfred!"

Luckily, the scream seemed to do the trick. Alfred raced into the room, tripping over his own feet. "Wh-What?" he asked, his eyes wide with alarm. "Are you okay, Artie? What happened?"

Arthur pointed over at the frog. "What the bl-bloody hell is that thing?" he asked, his voice quiet.

Alfred, panting from such sudden movements and his own fear, glanced over at his frog. "H-Him? That's a frog I bought the other day. I named him King."

The Englishman struggled to control his heavy breathing. "You bought a frog?" he asked. "It's staring at me."

"Frogs stare. It's, like, a fact of life." Alfred took in Arthur's frightened stance. "Dude, are you scared of King?"

"Don't call that thing King!" Arthur snapped. "It's a hideous creature!"

"Aw, King is adorable." And then Alfred reached in the tank and pulled the 'hideous creature' out of it's prison, stroking his head gently. "See? King is harmless."

Arthur's heart nearly stopped as Alfred walked closer to him, and when King opened his mouth for a second, Arthur freaked. "Alfred, take that thing away from me, please don't bring it any closer!" he begged, quickly maneuvering so that he was further away from Alfred and his pet frog.

Alfred halted, his curious eyes raking over Arthur. "You're seriously scared of frogs? Is that why you call Francis a frog all the time? Are you scared of him, too?"

"I'm not scared of anyone, Alfred, now just please put that thing back in the glass like a good boyfriend, please don't do this to me..."

Alfred did as Arthur asked, though he was smirking all the while. "You know, if I wasn't so worried for King's safety, I'd probably throw him on you just to see how you'd react."

Arthur straightened from his previous cowering position, a red blush coming to his face at Alfred's words (and at how strongly he had reacted). "Well, aren't you just the shining example of a perfect partner, Alfred? Yes, let's take your boyfriend's fear and poke fun at it, shall we? How _noble_ of you, really, it is indeed such an _honor_ to be-"

"Chill, bro." Alfred rolled his eyes. "I was just joking around. I really didn't know you're so scared of frogs."

"You're supposed to know everything about me, Alfred!"

"And I would if you _told me_," Alfred snapped back. "Seriously, don't put all of the blame on me. If I had known you were scared of frogs, I-"

Arthur crossed his arms, forcing himself to keep his eyes on Alfred. "You would what? Have never bought the frog? Given it to someone else? Thrown it outside where it belongs?"

Alfred glared. "No! I would have put King in my bedroom."

"No, I'm not going to be in the same house that a frog lives in," Arthur retorted.

It took the young American a few minutes to realize what Arthur was saying. "Wait...so, you're not gonna visit me anymore unless King is...gone?"

"Yes, that's correct. Squash it, give it away, feed it to a cat, I don't bloody care what you do with the damn thing. It's either me or the frog, though. You will not have both, I can assure you of that."

Alfred blinked. "Whoa, now you're gonna break up with me because I have _a frog?_ You're gonna make me choose between you and _a frog?_" He shook his head, gaping at his boyfriend. "You have got to be kidding me."

Arthur held his chin high. "I don't say things I don't mean. Choose, Alfred. Me or the slimy beast?"

Alfred continued staring at Arthur, blue eyes wide, and Arthur was nearly about to take everything back and just promise to never visit Alfred in his apartment again, but then the other man spoke. "So, uh, not even if I move him into my bedroom?"

Now unwilling to back down, Arthur shook his head. "Not even then."

"You're a jerk," Alfred snapped. "You're just a stupid jerk. What, can't handle the fact that I like King a lot? Even though I have to handle a bunch of your shit, you can't even _try_ handling mine?" He held his hand out. "Well, fine. Since you _obviously_ seem to be super jealous of my frog, gimme my key back. You can't visit and I won't visit you and we're through!"

"Well, fine!" Arthur retorted, digging through his pockets and stuffing the key in Alfred's hands. "I never even liked the stupid key anyway!" Which was a complete lie. He actually felt rather empty without the key. It was as if he was throwing away something important, something that meant the world to him.

That key was the big step he had been waiting for, and now it was taken from him and there weren't any more big steps to take. Because, as Alfred had said, they were through.

Alfred pointed at the door. "Leave, then! If you can't stand being in here 'cause King must take up all your space, just go!"

King hopped around happily in his aquarium. Arthur wanted to kill that damn frog (both frogs, actually- King _and_ Francis, since the former started the fight and the latter got him into this whole relationship to begin with). "I will!" he yelled. "I will leave and I'll find someone and I will shag them all night long! They'll kiss me and they'll fondle me and I will _fuck_ them, and they'll do the same to me!"

That was the final straw. Alfred's face turned completely red. "See if I care!" he bellowed. "You go do just that, alright? I don't give a flying shit anymore! I hate you and I hope you find someone who...who..."

"Who pleasures me in ways you could never-"

The slap was well-justified. Even at the moment Alfred's hand connected with his cheek, Arthur realized he probably deserved that slap. It shut him up, made his cheek red, and finally forced him to look at Alfred's face. Tears were streaked along his cheeks, his lower lip trembling in a way that clearly showed just how close to sobbing he was.

"Just go," he hissed, his voice hitching from the cries he was nearly about ready to let out. "Just leave me alone, Arthur."

Arthur froze, staring at that face and realizing he was the one who was at fault here. Not Alfred, not Francis, not even the stupid frog. It was him who wouldn't compromise, who wouldn't see things the way Alfred did. Alfred had been _trying_ to make everything better. He had offered to keep the frog in his bedroom, after all, since he knew Arthur never went in there. He opened his mouth to say something, to apologize, but nothing came out. Without anything else said between the two of them, Arthur left, slamming the door as he went and walking down to his car, ignoring his own tears that were falling from his eyes.

He told the entire story to Francis. He had called him, bawling and a complete wreck, and when Francis arrived, he had already brought out the booze. "I just don't know what came over me," he said, wiping his eyes. "I know I'm scared of frogs, but I just took it too far."

Francis nodded in agreement. "_Oui_," he replied. "You did. Is this why you call me frog? Do you hate me that much?"

"Even more so," Arthur muttered, though he really showed no sign of hatred at the moment. "Francis, what am I to do? I said some horrible things to Alfred-"

"I'm fully aware of that."

"-so how am I supposed to ever make this right again?" he slumped over in his seat. "I don't wish to leave him. Not ever."

Francis eyed the bottles of brandy. "Arthur, you made some pretty rude comments to him. From what I heard from your own mouth, I would have to believe that you probably struck him down in ways you could never imagine. On top of being angry at _you_, he's probably angry with himself."

Arthur glanced up. "What?" he gasped. "Why should he be angry with himself? I'm to blame for everything."

"Which you and I both know," Francis said. "Arthur, you told a very non-sexual guy that you were unhappy with, er...not engaging in sexual activity."

"I never said that!" Arthur exclaimed. "Not _once_ did I say I was unhappy."

Francis seemed to be losing his patience. "You said that, not only did you wish to 'shag' and, pardon my language, 'fuck' someone, which, firstly, is very barbaric and rude and just the wrong thing to say, but you also told him that you would find someone who 'pleasured you' more than he ever could. Or...more than he ever would. Whichever." Francis waved his hand. "My point is, Arthur, you expressed the fact that you...want a more physical relationship."

Sadly enough, Arthur realized that Francis was making perfect sense. "Oh, god," he breathed. "I...I probably broke his heart." He reached around in his pocket. "I'm calling him."

However, Francis put his hand over the cell phone that Arthur had just pulled out. "_Non,_" he argued. "You won't. It's not even been three hours. Give him at least two days, then call. Both of you need to calm down from this fight if the relationship is to survive." He smiled gently. "Don't worry, Arthur. Everything will turn out alright."

Later on in the evening, after Francis had managed to put away the alcohol before Arthur became drunk, the phone rang. Francis checked the caller's I.D. "It's Alfred," he said, looking surprised. "Strange. He isn't usually the one to crack first."

Arthur was on the phone in a second. "Alfred, oh my gosh, I'm so sorry, I was just-"

"A-Arthur, can...can we please just makeup? I mean...I...I don't wanna get rid of King, but I'll..." And his voice trailed off in a mumbled.

"Alfred, darling, speak up. I can't hear a-"

"I said we could have sex if you wanted to. I...I can have sex with you if that's what you want. I'm sorry I-I haven't been the best boyfriend, that I haven't been caring any about you, that I'm s-selfish-"

That was all it took for Arthur to realize the American was crying. "No, no, don't cry, Alfred. And don't say any of that. I wasn't even thinking, I'm perfectly fine with how everything-"

"No you aren't," Alfred responded. "I haven't even been _asking_ how you felt-"

"Alfred, shut up," Arthur finally snapped. "What was it you said when I first found out you had a frog? I had complained that you were supposed to know everything about me, and you exclaimed that I had to actually _tell_ you. Our relationship is built on trust, Alfred. And I'm telling you this, and I hope you can trust this- nothing is wrong with our relationship. In fact, everything is perfect. You're perfect, it's...it's perfect."

Alfred was quiet, breathing deeply. "So...so you don't want sex?"

Arthur chuckled. "No. I don't even understand why I said that in the first place. I was just spewing shit from my mouth."

He could practically see Alfred's grin. "You do that a lot, huh?"

"Only sometimes, love."

"Um...I know it won't mean much to you, since King's still here, but I can give the key back."

Arthur's heart swelled with joy. The step was (re)taken! They would trust each other once more, love each other once more. "I'll come visit as much as I can. I love that blasted key."

Alfred laughed. "If you're coming, I'll move King into the bedroom, cool? That way you won't have to look at the 'hideous creature'."

"Well..." Arthur shrugged. "Maybe he isn't _too_ hideous." He sounded sheepish about admitting that, but he smiled as Alfred laughed again. "Say, how about I stop by tomorrow? We can make some tea- or coffee, since you seem to enjoy that bloody drink all too much- and you can hand me back that gorgeous key, and all will be well."

"Swell!" Alfred exclaimed. "See ya then, Artie. Love you!"

Arthur blushed, but the smile only grew. "I love you as well, Alfred." He hung up and sighed in content, turning to Francis with a smug look. "He didn't even have to wait one day," he said. "Alfred forgives me now!"

Francis looked all too amused. "I assume both of you decided to compromise?"

"You supposed right." Arthur still looked haughty as he sat back down.

"He didn't get rid of the frog, though, did he?"

Arthur groaned, leaning back. "I'll just pretend it isn't there."


	16. And We'll Meet in a Kiss

**Genre: Humor/Romance**

**Rating: PG- Language, genderbending (if that's a warning)**

**Summary: ****_America only wants one prince, and she certainly won't wait for him._**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

In fairytales, it was always 'the princess waits for her prince'. How stupid. How incredibly stupid. America sat in her room, unable to comprehend the fact that there _were_ women out there who would actually prefer waiting for that 'special someone'.

Lazy assholes. Every single one of them.

America wanted people to actually get up and...and _get the guy_. Too long had women been waiting for the right men. Why couldn't men wait for the right woman? Or, better yet, why couldn't both man and woman run out searching and smack right into each other? And their lips would meet as they fell and they both would blush, but his green eyes would stare into her blue ones and he'd speak in a British accent and he'd be the fucking United Kingdom and there was no questioning it!

She wanted England and no one else.

"Just tell him how you feel," France said when they spoke privately after one of the World Meetings held in his country. "You, _chérie Amérique_, are never at a lost for words, so you should have no problem doing this."

America scowled. "Just 'cause you got no problem when it comes to love doesn't mean it's a cinch for everyone else." She pouted. "Why can't we _both_ say it? Like, at the same time. Like we run into each other and then our lips meet on the way down and-"

"You've put far too much thought into this than you should, _mon cher_," France chortled. "America, if you don't tell him how you feel, I will."

"You'll tell him how you feel?"

France sighed. "I worry about you, _Amérique_. No, I'll tell him how _you_ feel."

America scoffed. "Why would you do a stupid thing like that?"

"Because England knows better than to ignore my calls on potential lovers. As much as we hate each other sometimes, he trusts my judgment and he knows I would never lie to him when it comes to love. I believe that everyone deserves their chance to find that special someone."

"You said 'find'," America pointed out. "So you believe I should _find_ him?"

"Why would you need to find him? You know where he is."

"It's a metaphoris."

France blinked. "Pardon?"

"You know what I mean!" America whined.

However, France had the expression that he really _didn't_ know what she meant. "A metaphor, do you mean?"

"Yeah!" America clapped her hands together. "Awesome. I knew it started with 'meta'."

The elder country shook his head. "But it doesn't even make any sense, _Amérique_."

Holding back a groan, America replied, "I just meant that...like, how do I get us together?"

"We're going in circles." France pointed at the door. "Go tell him. He's probably somewhere around the building, and you'll be here for a few days, so you have plenty of chances."

However, she actually _didn't_ have plenty of chances. She was busy with the meeting and, when given breaks, hanging out with her friends or that mysterious brother of hers (who seemed to enjoy randomly popping up and scaring the living daylights out of her).

When she arrived home, she realized she didn't 'find' her prince like she had wanted to. So she did the next best thing- she called him.

"Hm? What is it, America?"

"Let's go on a date!" she blurted out, standing from her chair. Yes! Yes, she finally did it! She wasn't waiting for her damn prince, she was so catching him! And they would totally meet halfway!

Except then she realized that would mean meeting somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean. Which was impossible to do by plane. Boat, perhaps? And they would reenact that romantic Titanic scene and live happily, ever after and the end. Minus 'the end'.

But England began stammering. "W-Well...when did you, er...want this date?"

"Now."

"Now? But...now I am actually trimming my eyebrows. May I call you later?"

America sighed. Well, at least he had a legitimate excuse. "Yeah. Sure. Talk to ya after you're done." She hung up and sat back down. Now all she had to do was wait. Probably for a while, since England had huge eyebrows and...

_And he had never before trimmed his eyebrows, that fucking liar._

She picked up the phone again, calling right back. The line was busy. She waited a few minutes, then called again. Still busy.

After the sixth time of getting the 'busy' tone, she stood (once again) from her seat and called her private pilot. "Get the jet started up," she said, quickly walking out the door. "We're going to England."

"But, Miss America, we just came home from France."

"Yeah, but England won't meet me halfway in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean 'cause he's a dick, and we won't fall over with a passionate kiss because he isn't even here, so I'm gonna go and actually trim his eyebrows for him and then I'll throw him into the Atlantic and then I'll make out with him."

And, just to make sure the pilot caught how serious she was, she growled, "In that order."

If anything, the pilot just seemed exasperated. "Yes, fine, whatever. The jet will be ready in ten minutes."

And back to Europe she went, wondering why on earth she ever thought this was a good idea. It was probably early morning by the time she had landed, and she really wanted to do nothing more than fall asleep on one of those really comfortable seats in her jet.

But she had to do as she said she would, so she called a cab and directed them to England's large house and, without any regard for the time, pounded on his door, using just enough force to make it echo through the house and still managed not to break it down (as she had done multiple times).

After about five minutes, England opened the door, his hair and night clothes disheveled and his expression anything but cheerful. "It's three in the morning, America. What do you want?"

America frowned. "Your eyebrows aren't trimmed," she snapped, pushing past him and stepping inside. "C'mon, I'm gonna trim 'em for you."

England closed the door. "...What?"

"That's right! And, once we're done with your stupid eyebrows, I'm gonna throw you into the ocean. Then, after that, we'll make out."

"Why?" England was blushing, having been found out.

"Because you lied to me!"

"No, why making out?"

"Oh. 'Cause I want to kiss you." She flushed red, yet continued speaking. "And don't change the subject! You told me you were trimming your eyebrows even though I wasn't waiting for my prince to come and sweep me off my feet like every other stupid girl in the world does!" She huffed. "Point is, you lied."

England scratched at his hair. "I...I was just shocked you asked and I called France to, er...ask for advice, and I wanted to wait until morning to respond to your offer for a date."

"What was the response?" Well, this was a change of plans. Not that America minded all too much.

"I-It...it was a yes," England muttered. "I wouldn't mind going out with you."

America grinned. "Awesome! Man, that was easy. I thought I'd actually have to trim your eyebrows." She stuck her tongue out. "I might be America, but even I can't do the impossible."


	17. A Worthy Tale

**Genre: Humor**

**Rating: PG- Slight language, overall craziness**

**Summary: ********America is stuck in a tower, Mother Russia is a liar, and England is the dashing 'loyal steed'.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.  
**

* * *

America stood in a high tower, his blue eyes scanning the territory beyond his prison. All he ever saw was wildlife. He wanted something new. He wanted something different. He wanted someone to come and rescue him from this accursed place.

"No one will come," he glumly stated to his little woodpecker friend, Fred. "No one will ever come for me, Fred."

Fred fluttered over to him. "Don't give up yet, America!" he exclaimed. "You'll find that special someone one of these days."

America flung his arms around. "How?" he asked. "There's no one around, not for miles! The only person around is-"

"America! I'm home!" a cheerful voice called out.

America groaned. "Mother Russia," he hissed. "He might tell me he's my mom, but there's no possible way that fat-ass could ever get a chick to sleep with him." Then he thought that over. "Wait, but if a chick slept with him, that would mean _she'd _get pregnant."

Fred nodded at him. "Observant, America."

Said country groaned once more (even though people normally didn't groan all too much in fairytales, one would assume). "Fine. There's no possible way some other guy would ever sleep with _him_." He began making his way to his bedroom door, Fred fluttering close behind.

"Aren't you gonna even ask how a _man_ got pregnant?"

America waved him off. "It happens all the time, dude. Now shoo! Mother Russia is known to eat the animals he catches." He glared at the woodpecker until it flew away, which was when he finally opened the door.

Mother Russia twirled into the room in all his evilness and smiley-ness.

"Ah, good evening, America! Mother Russia has returned."

"I can see that perfectly fine, no need to tell me, Mother."

Mother Russia pinched America's cheeks. "Aw, what a sweet boy Mother Russia has!"

"I thought I asked you to quit referring to yourself in third person. It's creepy."

Before Mother Russia could respond, though, they both heard a shout from below the tower. "America, America, let down your hair!"

America was the first to run to the window. "My prince has come!" he gasped, taking in the sight of the blond-haired, green-eyed, bushy-eyebrowed prince.

He only knew he was a prince because of that adorable crown sitting lopsided on his head. "Prince! You've come for me!"

"Yes, I have!" The prince threw his hands up. "Now, let down your hair! I shall climb up it and rescue you from your dastardly mother!" He didn't seem to notice the fact that America's hair was just as short as his own.

Mother Russia pushed America aside. "Well, it seems we have Prince England. What a surprise." Mother Russia chuckled, gazing down at the prince.

England pointed his finger at Russia, chin held high and eyes blazing. "You are a liar, Mother Russia! For only I know the truth- you are not America's true mother!"

America gasped. "You lied to me?" he hissed, staring at Mother Russia.

However, rather than deny it (as it is usually done in most fairytales), Mother Russia just chuckled. "_Da_," he said. "I lied."

America couldn't take all the lies. "Well, no more!" he said, now taking his rightful place at the window again. "I'm going!" And he jumped out.

"Bloody hell, America, I'm supposed to climb up your hair!" England shrieked, but he somehow managed to catch America. They stared at each other, breathless and blushing and wide-eyed.

"You saved my life," America whispered. "How could I ever repay you?"

England blinked. "I'm currently wondering how the hell I caught you."

"Details. Now, we ride off into the sunset!" America settled himself in front of England (who, as it has been forgotten to be mentioned, unlike most fairytales would do to their audience, was on a horse). "Ride forth, my loyal steed!"

England did as asked (and whether America was actually talking to the horse or England, the world shall never know), and they rode into the sunset.

Until, that is, a tornado came their way.

"Since when are there tornadoes in fairytales?" England shouted, steadying his horse.

America gasped (as he had been doing quite often). "It's Mother Russia's doing! He is sending a tornado to bring me back to him! He must want my beauty!"

England shook his head. "No!" he said, jumping off the horse. "No, I won't let him take you from me!" He brandished his sword, facing the twister. "Go, America. Go. Leave me. I shall protect you with my life."

"England, no! I can't leave you!"

"You must!" And England slapped the horse's behind and watched as it galloped away, America calling out England's name in great fear.

England, true to his word, began attacking the twister (and, in fairytales, one would suppose that it _is_ quite possible to attack a twister, being a fairytale and all), which had begun to develop a certain face. "Such a brave child, Prince England," the face said, smiling in a way not unlike Mother Russia.

"Mother Russia!" England growled. "You will leave America alone! You are a liar, and I shall defeat you with my bare hands!"

Mother Russia chuckled. "I am a twister, Prince England. No one can defeat a twister!"

Before England could even try, though (he would have failed, for people just can't attack twisters and live to tell the tale, unless they were drunk), bombs suddenly fell from the sky, somehow destroying all traces of Mother Russia. England looked up to see America riding on a flying horse (and because at least one Cold War reference must be made in a fairytale with both America and Mother Russia, the horse was named Iron Curtain).

As he landed, England gasped. "How on earth...this is my loyal steed! How ever did you make him fly?"

America jumped off said loyal steed and raced over to England, tackling him in a hug. "Magical carrots, my true love. You had some conveniently placed in your sack."

England smiled. "My, I must have forgotten about those."

America stared at his true love, stroking his face. "England. I wanted to tell you that I love you."

"Yes, I guessed that."

Suddenly, someone else walked up. This someone had the exact same face as America, though his hair was longer. "He is not your true love!"

America recognized that voice. "I recognize that voice!"

England didn't. "I don't."

The newcomer smirked. "I smirked."

America stood. "You are Fred! But...you look just like me!"

Fred laughed. "Wrong! I am Canada!" He pulled out a machine gun. "This is payback for all those times you forgot about me!"

America screamed. "No! Fred, don't-"

"My name is Canada!"

America stumbled down to his kitchen, eyes groggy from sleep and head still spinning.

"Morning, love," England said, looking up from his tea. "My, but someone must have been quite sleepy."

America yawned. "I had the weirdest dream ever. I was, like, Rapunzel or something and Russia had me captured but you rescued me and then we got stopped by a Russia tornado or something, and you faced it and then I fed your horse magical carrots and bombed the shit outta the tornado, but then Fred, my talking woodpecker, suddenly turned into Canada, who was evil and tried killing me." He stopped for breath. "And then I woke up."

England looked amused. "Is that so?" he asked. "So, I assume I was the prince, since I rescued you."

"Yeah."

England chuckled. "Sounds exciting. I've always wanted to be a prince." He pointed over to a mug at America's place. "I, er...I tried making you coffee. I'm not sure how good it is, though, but it should at least help you wake up."

America sighed contently, slumping down in the chair. "Where have you been all my life, Prince England?"

And, obviously, since England was England, America's prince must have been in his dreams only. There is a fine line between England and Prince England, after all.

For one, England would be squashed if America ever jumped out of a tower onto him. For another, only Prince England could be so out of character.

* * *

**This is my true style of writing. Not even joking. **


	18. Beauty Pageants

**Genre: Humor/Romance**

**Rating: PG**

**Summary: Amelia's father doesn't seem to like the fact that he's stuck with a daughter, so she pretends to be a boy for him. However, with the help of Arthur (and Francis), she learns that he actually does accept her for who she is.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

Amelia's father had never wanted a girl. She knew very little of her actual birth, but she was certain he stood there scowling, just as he did when she played Barbies, just as he did when she wore a dress, just as he did when she squealed in a girly, high-pitched voice.

When she was seven, they moved across town to start a new life.

And Amelia decided it was high time to start a life of her own.

She didn't want her father to keep frowning whenever she walked into the room. She didn't want a father who always seemed disappointed in her. She wanted a happy father who would laugh and talk and joke with her. The only way to do that, though, was to be born a man.

Since that wasn't possible, young Amelia ditched all things girly and began acting more and more like a guy. She kept her hair short, she stayed away from dresses, and she played with all the boys in the neighborhood.

By the time she was eleven, she could run faster than any guy, she could hit a baseball better than any guy, and she could talk tougher than any guy.

They all believed her to be a guy. They didn't have any reason to believe she was a girl, after all, what with the way she acted and dressed.

Pretty soon, she had every guy in the neighborhood convinced.

When the new kid moved in, she figured she'd best start convincing him early, just so he wouldn't get suspicious (she _did_ have a feminine face, after all). She knocked on the door to his new house, grinning brightly when he answered.

"Howdy! Name's Alfred Jones! Who're you?" She held out her hand for him to shake.

The kid glanced over at her. "Arthur Kirkland," he stated, shaking the hand. "Pleasure."

Her eyes widened. "Hey, you're British!"

"Why, yes. I...I am."

"That's awesome!" She grinned again. "I never met any British folk around here! Or anywhere, for that matter. Guess you guys aren't all that popular down here in America, what with the Revolution and all."

Arthur stiffened. "I would assume that British people are only popular in Britain, while Americans are only popular in America."

"Assume away!" Amelia exclaimed. "So, what school are you going to?"

Looking a bit lost with the random subject change, Arthur responded, "Er, Westboro Elementary School. It's just a few blocks away. Do you go there?"

Amelia snorted. "Nope. My mom says that public schools don't teach people all too great, and since we don't got the money to afford a stuffy private school, Mom homeschools me." She smacked her gum. "Teaches me everything I know 'bout."

Arthur blinked. "So, not much then?"

The rude comment flew right over Amelia's head. "Nope, she actually teaches me a lot." The girl looked around. "Um...you wanna play ball?"

"Actually, I'm not very athletic."

"Oh." Well, that was unheard of. A boy who didn't want to play ball? What fun did he have, then? "What, uh, _do_ you do?"

Arthur blushed. "I...I read," he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. "And I like making up stories."

"Stories?" Amelia perked up. "Hey, I like stories! So, you're, like, a story-teller?"

"Yes, I guess you could call me that."

"Can you tell me a story sometime, then? Please?"

Arthur looked at her, an amused smile coming to his face. "Sure, Alfred."

They hung out all the time after that. Amelia began ditching the other boys and she and Arthur would go to their 'special tree house' that they found in the middle of a forest. He would tell her stories and she would point out different constellations and stars at night.

Somehow, she kept her growing body a secret. She wore very loose clothes, with many layers, to hide her breasts from viewing eyes. She all but ditched every other guy, and Arthur became her only close friend. He never seemed to notice the fact that she was steadily growing into a woman.

By the time she was seventeen and he was nineteen, he still had no clue.

"When are you going off to college?" she asked, sitting on the very edge of the tree house and swinging her legs back and forth.

Arthur smiled. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason. I mean, other than the fact that you're my best friend." She blushed while saying this.

Not only did Arthur not know she was a girl, he was also unaware that she had a crush on him. Such a silly, teenaged crush, yes, but she couldn't help it. Everything about him was interesting, was fun, was simply handsome. She tried pushing her feelings away, but they wouldn't budge. Nope, her heart wouldn't still, her hands wouldn't stop sweating, and her face wouldn't stop heating up.

The double life she led was sometimes quite a curse.

"I'm your only friend," Arthur pointed out.

"Yeah, and I'm _your_ only friend." Amelia nudged him. "Tell. I wanna know when you leave."

Arthur shrugged. "Two months. We'll have to video chat while I'm over in England."

Amelia groaned, leaning back and gazing up at the stars. "Why are you going to college so far away?" she asked. "We have fun here, don't we?"

Plus, like he had said, he was her only friend.

"Yes, we do, but the college I'm going to is a good one. I'll only be gone four years, and then, from what I have planned out, I'll probably move back here."

"Four years is too long," Amelia grumbled. She sat up once more. "Promise me we'll video chat _every day?_"

Arthur blinked. "Don't you think every day is a bit much?"

"Fine. Every week, at least?"

Arthur sighed. "Yes, Alfred, I promise. Goodness, you're so bloody persistent."

Without even thinking, Amelia flung her arms around him and pressed up against him in a hug. "And you, Arthur, are the best friend a guy could ask for."

Arthur chuckled nervously. "Y-Yes, well, I...er..." And he trailed off, face turning red. "Al-Alfred...heh, it could just be the way your clothes are, b-but...are...do you have, erm..."

Amelia's eyes grew wide as she realized just what Arthur was about to ask. She quickly drew back, shaking her head. "No," she said. "No, no, I don't have any boobs. Promise. I swear it!"

Arthur just stared at her. "Alfred...you..." He took a deep breath. "You have breasts."

And the secret was out. Amelia had never felt so humiliated and stupid in her entire life. "Yes," she said. "No! Wait...I..." She sighed. "Um...well, I d-do. I do have, uh, breasts. And my name kinda isn't Alfred."

"What?" Arthur was gazing at her as if she had just grown two heads. Make that three.

"Okay, whole story. Otherwise, you'll just be confused." Amelia tried ignoring the blush spreading all along her face. "Um, my father kinda wanted a boy, not a girl. But, you know, he's stuck with me now. And, uh, to...to stop him from scowling at me all the time, I started acting like a guy. When we moved, we were new and everyone believed I was a dude, so I just made up a name for myself and...and I became a guy to everyone. But, uh...yeah. I'm...I'm a girl." She swallowed nervously. "Please don't hate me. I just wanted my father to accept me."

Arthur looked away, taking a deep breath. "It's a bit of a shock when you find out your best friend was never a guy."

"I know."

"But...I could never hate you, Alfre-" He stopped. "Wait, what's your name?"

"A-Amelia," she muttered. "You can still call me Alfred, though, I don't mind."

Arthur scratched at the back of his neck, also looking a bit flushed. "I'll probably call you Amelia when we're alone and Alfred when we're not."

She couldn't help but say, "When we're alone?"

It only took a quick second for Arthur to realize what she was implying. "No, no, not like that!" His face turned even more red than it already was. "When...oh, you know what I mean, you bloody git." He bit his lip. "Ah, didn't mean to call you that, since you're a girl now and that's rude and-"

"Still can't stop calling me those rude British words, can ya?" Amelia laughed. "I gotcha, Artie. Don't worry. Plus, if you ever stopped calling me those names, I'd feel like you hated me."

It was quiet for a few minutes, Amelia and Arthur staring up at the sky. "Is your father accepting of you now?" Arthur asked, breaking the silence.

"Hm? Um...not...not really. He just won't ever _appreciate_ me. It's like, no matter how strong or how fast or how smart I am, he can't just pat my back and say, 'good job'. That's all I want from him. Just a little sign that I'm doing everything right."

Arthur looked over at her. "You know...there's a beauty pageant in town just a few days before I leave for England."

"Yeah? What of it?"

The Englishman tugged at Amelia's sleeve. "I'm entering you."

"What?" Amelia gasped and glared at him. "Are you crazy? I'll never win that thing! And, even if I do, what makes you think my dad will accept me then?"

"Just trust me on this." Arthur smiled. "I actually have a French friend who can turn you into a princess."

Amelia snorted. "What happened to me being your only friend?" she asked.

"Yes, friend was the wrong term to use for that French slob." Arthur smirked. "I have a French enemy who can turn you into a princess."

"And this will work?"

"This will work."

They stared at each other for a bit, Amelia suspicious and Arthur unwavering. "Fine," she finally muttered. "I guess I can deal with it for two weeks."

"Brilliant." Arthur smiled. "Although, I must say, it's weird signing my once-male friend up for a beauty pageant."

"Well, you won't be getting used to it, I can assure you of that."

Arthur introduced her to Francis the very next day. "Alf- Amelia, Francis, Francis, A-Amelia." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Bullocks. This is difficult."

"Call me whatever you want," Amelia said, waving him off. "I don't care." She grinned at Francis. "Pleased to meet ya, Francis!"

Francis, a taller, slimmer, and very French man, smirked and kissed her head. "The pleasure is all mine, Miss Amelia."

While Arthur glared, Amelia just laughed. "Geez, Artie, didn't expect ya to have such womanizing friends, what with you being, like, a virgin and stuff."

Arthur turned his glare on her and corrected, "I told you, he's my enemy."

"Oh, is that what you're calling us these days?" Francis shrugged. "I can deal with that. Now, let me see what I can do with your little _petite amie_ here."

Fortunately for Amelia, she didn't understand French. Arthur on the other hand, bristled and glowered. "J-Just...just work on her, alright?" He sat down, hunching over and mumbling under his breath.

"What, you're just gonna watch, Artie?" Amelia asked, grinning.

"If I wasn't here, who knows how long it would be until your clothes were gone."

Francis put a hand to his heart. "You wound me, _mon ami._"

"We're enemies," Arthur pointed out.

The Frenchman pouted. "Fine. _Mon ennemi._"

Sometime later (Arthur lost count after the first fifty minutes), Francis finally sighed. "I do believe we're done," he said. "Tell me what you think?" He spun the chair around that held Amelia and Arthur felt his mouth fall open.

She was gorgeous.

There wasn't really another way to put it.

Perhaps it was because she always had messy, short hair, she never put on makeup, and she never looked this shy, but Amelia was a goddess to Arthur's eyes.

"Wow," he muttered.

She swallowed nervously. "Um...is it that good? I've never really looked like this before, so I don't know what to think of it, but, I mean..." She twirled her hair, which Arthur had never known was so thick. "Francis told me to let my hair grow out some more before the pageant, so I look, uh, more girly. Even though I like it short. What do you think, Artie?"

He said it without even thinking. "You look pretty both ways."

And then he groaned, slapping his forehead. "For someone I always thought was a guy, I mean. You...um, yes."

However, his sudden awkwardness didn't go unnoticed by Amelia, who grinned. "Gee, thanks. Such kind compliments, Artie." She glanced at Francis. "Now, do I have to keep wearing makeup everyday, or was this just a test run?"

"A test run," he said. "I wouldn't expect you to know how to even put makeup on." He smiled. "I think I did a very decent job. Don't you agree, Arthur?"

Oh, did he ever? However, rather than admit it, he shrugged. "It's alright."

"He loves it!" Francis stated, kissing Amelia's cheek. "As do I. You, _mon cheri_, will certainly be crowned as the princess of the entire pageant."

"It's called 'Miss Westboro'," Arthur muttered. "And I agree with Francis. You have better looks than any other girl in this town, that's for sure." He stood. "Well, we'd best be going. I'm helping her shop for a dress."

Francis, never one to put down a chance to do something fashionable, smiled. "Well, why not invite me along, Arthur?"

"Like hell. No, you're staying here in your stupid French home with your stupid French-"

"Aw, Artie, c'mon!" Amelia interrupted. "We gotta repay him, anyway. He _is_ helping with my makeup and hair and stuff. Besides, I don't think you know nothing 'bout girl clothes, and since I certainly don't, Francis will be an awesome judge of what I choose!"

She bit her lower lip and put on that pout that she had always been famous for. As a guy this time, though, it was so much more endearing. "Fine," Arthur snapped after just a few seconds (he really couldn't resist her, could he?). "Fine, he can come. If he picks anything weird out for you, though, I'll kick his arse."

"Fine by me!" Amelia exclaimed.

As they roamed through the local dress shop, Francis asked, "Now, I actually haven't heard much about this pageant, so how does it work exactly?"

Arthur was more than happy to explain. "Basically, it's just a local beauty contest. Since Westboro is holding it's annual parade-"

"Oh, I know that one! Yeah, I remember seeing that princess up on the float waving and stuff." Amelia grinned. "So I get to do that?"

Looking just a bit irritated from being cut off, Arthur nodded. "Yes. Now let me continue." He cleared his throat. "However, since there's really no time to do the posing and whatnot, they ask only that you send in a picture of yourself."

Amelia blinked. "Wait, so I don't have to, like, jump through hoops or tap dance and sing or something? All I gotta do is take a simple picture?"

"That's it." Arthur nodded. "They ask that you look casual."

"Then what's the dress for?"

"The parade," Arthur said with a smirk.

Francis raised his eyebrows. "You're so certain she's going to win that you're even willing to buy a dress for her?"

Arthur nodded. "Yes. I'm certain."

Of course, buying a dress wasn't as simple of a task as Arthur assumed it would be. Francis would find something, but Amelia would shake her head. Amelia would find something, but Francis would shake his head. Arthur would find something, and they both would shake their heads.

"We need something that shows skin-"

"But not too much," Amelia added.

"Yes, but not too little, either. I would also like something to match your eyes."

"So, blue?" Arthur decided to add his input.

"Some form of blue, _oui_. However, red would be a gorgeous color on her, as well."

Amelia stuck her tongue out at one of the dresses they passed. "I also want it to be a solid color," she said. "And I don't want the cut too low."

It took all day. They entered multiple dress shops, tried on multiple dresses, but they were all 'no's'.

Finally, it seemed Amelia came across one dress that stunned them all.

"I...I wasn't aware you liked mermaid gowns, Amelia," Francis said, staring at her with wide eyes.

"I wasn't aware you liked gowns at all," Arthur murmured.

She blushed. "I mean...it's a good fit. Plus, the back is awesome." She spun to show them the lace-up bodice. "And it's blue, like you said, Francis, and it's long and doesn't have any slits in it and it actually looks pretty modest, so..." She faced the two boys again, taking a deep breath. "How do I look?"

Arthur wet his lips. Would he tell her that it showed off those curves very nicely (the curves he never knew she had)? Or that it matched her eyes perfectly? Or that she looked like the most beautiful princess he had ever seen in his entire life?

Francis smiled. "You look beautiful, Amelia. Absolutely beautiful."

She grinned. "Thanks. What about you, Artie? Do I look spiffy or what?"

Arthur swallowed. "You...you're breathtaking," he replied quietly. Francis gave him a knowing smirk and Amelia blushed all the more.

After they sent in the picture, Amelia, Arthur, and Francis could do little more than wait for the results. "I don't think this will work, guys," Amelia said one day, spinning around in Francis' computer chair. "I mean, I'm really not all that pretty."

"Nonsense!" Francis exclaimed. "Amelia, you're an angel from heaven."

Amelia just made a farting sound.

Arthur sighed. "I keep telling you to believe me. I know you'll win."

"How come?" Amelia asked, crossing her arms over her chest. She had gone back to wearing the baggy clothes for now, though her hair was certainly much longer than it used to be. "You're not some mind-reader. You can't predict what the judges will say."

The Englishman scratched his cheek. "I trust them to make the correct choice," he said.

And then Amelia's phone rang. She answered with her usual, "Hello?" greeting before falling silent. Arthur and Francis glanced at each other.

"I won?" she whispered. "Like...I seriously won?"

All Arthur could do was grin.

The days passed quickly for Amelia after that. She had to meet with the parade planners to do a few rehearsals, but she still felt rather numb. She invited her father and mother (the former simply looked away from her, and her heart plummeted at that, but he still promised to arrive). She invited Francis. She invited Arthur.

"You know you don't have to invite me," he said. "It's a public event."

"Yeah, well, inviting people makes it feel more official!" she exclaimed happily.

And then the day came. She sat up on her float as it went by the large crowd of people, a smile on her face and waving politely, all decked out with her new dress and elegant makeup and curled hair, courtesy of Francis (and Arthur, since he did buy her the dress). Her nerves were a jumbled mess, but she really did soak up the spotlight. And, of course, she kept an eye out for her friends and family.

She spotted Arthur and Francis first, Francis clapping and giving her a thumbs-up, and Arthur just smiling widely. She gave those two extra waves before moving on, where she finally caught sight of her parents.

Her mother was excited, cheering and exclaiming, "That's my girl!" Which was normal. Completely and utterly normal. What wasn't normal was when she glanced at her father.

He was crying.

He was actually crying and smiling at her, giving her a nod when she looked at him.

Amelia felt her own tears spring to her eyes, so she quickly looked away and continued with the parade.

Afterward, Arthur and Francis came to greet her in her tent. "You were _impeccable_, Amelia, absolutely superb!" He gave her a large hug. "I really outdid myself this time."

She laughed. "Thanks, Francis." Once he let go, she turned to Arthur. "And...it worked. It really, really worked! My dad was...he was _proud_ of me, Artie! I've never seen him that proud of me before! He was smiling and...and _crying!_" She shook her head. "You were right. You were...oh, gosh, he _accepts_ me! He accepts me for who I am!"

Her laughter came again, even more joyful than before, and she flung her arms around Arthur's neck. "Oh, thank you so much, Artie! Thank you so, so much! Without you, this would never have happened and...and..." She drew back just slightly, her arms still wrapped around him. "I love you. You're just so awesome for making thi-" And then she stopped. "Did...I just say..."

Arthur didn't allow her to finish that sentence, though. He leaned in and captured her lips in his own, closing his eyes and bringing her closer to him. "You did," he muttered as he pulled away. "And, after much thought-"

"He means after much time seeing you in dresses and makeup," Francis supplied.

"Shut it, frog." Arthur scowled at him before turning back to Amelia. "After much thought, I realize that I return those feelings, Amelia. I love you, whether you have short hair or long hair, whether you wear no makeup or loads of makeup, whether you dress in jeans and t-shirts or dresses and high heels." He kissed her once more. "I love you with all my heart."

Francis ruined the mood by clapping. "Such a beautiful statement," he said dramatically.

"Actually, I thought it was kinda cheesy," Amelia admitted. When Arthur opened his mouth to say something, Amelia rolled her eyes. "And romantic. Don't you worry yourself, Artie. I love you just as much, no matter what you wear." She kissed his cheek, her eyes bright with happiness. "See, aren't you glad I hugged you two months ago and let you feel my boobs?"

Arthur frowned, a blush spreading across his face. "Y-You didn't _let_ me feel them," he argued. "I just accidentally-"

The Frenchman cut in between them. "Wait, Arthur was feeling you up? When he believed you to be a _guy_?" He turned to his 'friend'. "My, my, Arthur. I am un-"

"It wasn't like that, you disgusting creature!" Arthur growled, punching Francis hard in the shoulder. "Sh-She just hugged me and, uh...yes. I kind of...noticed something was wrong." He cleared his throat, straightening out his shirt. "But let us not dwell on that matter. I believe Amelia wishes to see her parents."

"I sure do!" Amelia exclaimed, also looking quite pleased to be changing the subjects (and getting away from those all-too excited eyes of Francis). She grabbed Arthur's hand. "Plus, I can introduce you as my boyfriend now!"

"Already?" Francis asked, watching as they ran off. "Wait! I'd like the details of how you learned Amelia was a girl!" Of course, they were much too far away to hear him by then, so he sighed and leaned back slightly, crossing his arms over his chest and watching them disappear into the crowd. "I'll find out later," he promised himself.


	19. How to Change Spain's Mind

**Genre: Humor**

**Rating: PG- Slight language, England in a dress (what is it with me and sticking him in dresses?)**

**Summary: Spain said that 'England couldn't get out of the dress until he (Spain) changed his mind'. So America decides to go change it for him.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

It was all Spain's fault.

America had only said that phrase a few times in his long (short) life, but this time it was actually true. Just like the _Maine_. Yes, all Spain's fault. Like everything.

Okay, maybe not _everything_, but this truly was.

'Cause England told him Spain held deep grudges. England had said, "My lad, Spain is actually quite the evil dude when you get to know him and he hates fish and chips, that bullock-y git."

Except maybe not those exact words. Maybe he used less British phrases. Or more.

_Thepoint was_, though, that Spain still held a grudge from his old pirating days with England. Something about an armada and stuff. It was actually quite fascinating for America to listen to, but if he brought it up, England would start boasting and Spain would go into his 'I'm-gonna-kill-someone-named-England' mode, so it wasn't generally talked about.

America actually found it funny that they held grudges. He supposed it was because they were old and stuff. Old people held grudges a lot more than young people did.

America totally didn't have any grudges.

Russia didn't count. That guy was, and will forevermore, be just plain evil

Anyway, old guys held grudges, Spain held a grudge, Spain knew England's weakness and stuff happened.

Stuff always happens when people realize England's weakness (being that he gets mighty drunk and will agree to almost anything).

So when America visited him the next day to find him in a dress and holding a signed sheet of paper that had Spanish writing on it, America assumed it was all Spain's fault.

"England," he said, raising his eyebrows. "You're wearing a dress."

He could practically see England's patience flutter out of the chimney. "Very _observant,_ America. As if I didn't _know_ I was wearing a bloody dress! No, I just assumed that these were some French version of _trousers_." He slammed the paper into the table (if one could _slam _paper into a table, it would totally be England). "Goddammit, America, do you think I'm stupid or something?"

America blinked a few times, his face set expressionless. "I just thought, like, you were, uh..." He actually had no idea what he was thinking, so he just made something up. "Asleep."

England glared. "You thought I was asleep?"

"Yeah."

"Even though I answered the door?"

America bit his lip, nodding. "Yeah," he said. "Like...sleepwalking. Ya know."

"Since when do I sleepwalk at three in the afternoon?"

Man, all of England's points were really good. America wondered if he had practiced. "Since, like...now."

England groaned, finding a chair to fall over in. America stared, unaware that he was taking tips from France on how to be dramatic. "America, I'm pissed off enough as is. I don't need your stupidity to just set me off."

America shrugged. "Thought you already were set off. Your emotions don't vary much, do they?"

"_America!_"

"Fine, alright, just sayin'." America held up his hands as an innocent gesture before depositing himself in another seat. "So, what's with the dress?"

England sighed. "I became, er, drunk again last night."

"Makes sense."

"With Spain."

"He does have a thing for pretty dresses." America grinned. "Wait...does he?"

England stared at America, simply looking exasperated. "I don't know. Point is, he managed to make me sign this paper that states how I must only wear dresses from now on until he changes his mind." The poor island nation buried his head in his hands. "I don't know how I'll ever go outside again."

America looked rather bored about all of this. "You Europeans and your weird way of doing stuff. Look, just rip the sheet up and go back to wearing your normal clothes. I can't take you seriously in a dress, I really can't." Even though England _did_ look rather sexy. Not that America would say that. Nope. Nuh-uh.

England just scoffed. "America, I am a man of my word! I never go back on _any_ promise! _Ever!_"

Except America could probably come up with a few times before the Revolution that he did. "When I was little, you told me you would bake me some nice scones," he said, nodding his head. "But then there was an Indian attack and you were all bloody and told me, 'I'll do that tomorrow, America'." He puffed out his cheeks. "Guess what, I didn't get them until a week later."

The smaller country stared at America. "I don't understand you," he said.

"No one does. I'm, like, a mysterious beast."

"More like idiotic." England coughed. "Never mind. Point is, I'd rather not show up at a world meeting dressed like this. Who knows what France will do."

And it was at that moment that America realized England needed a hero. "I'll rescue you!" he exclaimed, jumping from his seat. "I'll kick Spain's ass like I did back in 1898!"

"Sit down, boy," England snapped. "I can take care of myself just fine!"

"Well, I wanna do _something_. As much as you actually can pull off a dress, you really do look silly."

England sighed. Which he had been doing quite often. America wondered if the dress was too tight. "You're hopeless," he said. "Besides, I already called Spain twice, and he refuses to change his mind."

America had a plan.

A plan that didn't involve global-warming.

"I catch your drift." He brushed imaginary dirt off his shoulders. "See you around, England."

"W-Wait!" England stood and grasped a hold of America's jacket. "Where are you going?"

America spun around. "I'm turning you back into a man," he said, wrapping one arm around England's waist and pulling him close. "Fear not, my fair princess. For I, the United States of America, shall surely change you back into your original self!" He finished this sentence with as much heroism as possible before glancing over at England. "You're supposed to do something like, 'oh, my lovely prince'."

England glared. "Dream on, America," he growled.

"Mm. Will do." And the implications of that sentence sent England blushing like a madman. "Well, I'm off! Toodles, England! I'll talk to you later!" With that, America let go of England and walked back outside, his brow set and determined.

Time to go have a little chat with Spain.

The flight was quick, since Spain was right next to France and stuff (America didn't really know, actually), and Spain was at home, luckily.

"Oh, _hola América!_" Spain greeted, all smiles and friendliness. "It's good seeing you here! I haven't spoken to you for quite some time!"

America, however, wasn't here for chit-chat. Nope. He was here for _business_. "Let's get down to business," he said, proud that he was finally able to say something like that. "You turned England into a girl!"

Spain gasped. "Did I really? Is this because of the dress? Oh, _lo siento_, _América! _I didn't know putting him into a dress would do such a thing! Is he a pretty girl, at least?"

And Spain was freaking out. Wrong word choice. "Uh. No. He's not a girl."

"What is he, then?"

"A boy."

"Oh. Wait..." Spain blinked. "I turned him into a child? The dresses must look even better on-"

"No, no, he's just normal. He's like England, 'cept he's wearing a dress, which is very _un_-England like."

Spain looked confused. "So nothing happened?"

"Nope. Nada. Zilch. Whatever you Mexicans say."

Spain smiled. "I'm a Spaniard," he said.

"Same thing. Anyway, point is that England is, like, totally unhappy in a dress and since I'm, like, his prince and hero and stuff, I've come here to avenge him and make you take away that silly deal. He was drunk, so it's an invalid agreement." There. That seemed intelligent enough. Now Spain would start crying and beg for America's forgiveness.

However, Spain shook his head. "I can't do that, actually. We made a deal and he has to hold up to his end of the bargain."

And that was more than enough of being smart. Now it was time to bring out the Hulk. "Change it!" America yelled, pushing Spain inside his house. "Change the deal! I mean, change your mind!"

Having never seen America so angry (although he wasn't, really, he just had superb acting skills), Spain's eyes grew wide. "Ah, b-but it was a...a deal!"

America drew in a deep breath. Yelling wasn't working. Being smart wasn't working. Perhaps threats would do the trick. "Change your mind or...or I'll bring someone back from the dead!"

"...Who?"

Who indeed. America had no earthly idea. Abe Lincoln would be awesome, 'cause then he could maybe change him into a vampire hunter like in that sweet movie (America had to admit, old Abe would have been ten times more fun as a vampire hunter), but Spain had no connection to Lincoln. Or Washington. Or Jefferson. Or Adams. Or Bill Clinton. Except he totally wasn't dead. Besides, he might see England in a dress and decide to sleep with him or something like that.

Then it came to him. "Teddy."

Spain blinked. "Teddy?"

Realizing that Spain must not remember the awesome nickname of the awesome hero, America corrected himself. "Theodore Roosevelt."

Ah, that worked. Recognition clicked in Spain's eyes. "Y-You wouldn't."

"I would."

No, he really wouldn't. He didn't know how to bring people back from the dead.

Spain swallowed nervously. "I-I...I'm...I was..." He finally sighed. "F-Fine. I changed my mind. England can...can go back to wearing his normal clothes."

That worked out perfectly. Pleased Spain was just as clueless as himself, America gave him a hug. "No Teddy for you, then!" he exclaimed, then ran out of his house and caught the first flight back to England.

Which was delayed by a few hours. Which made no sense. It was right _there_.

When the planes finally worked and America reached England's house, it was in the middle of the night. And England was still wearing the dress. "Boy, you're really into this whole deal, aren't ya?" America asked, grinning and making his way inside.

"Well? Did you do as you wanted? Did you get Spain to change his mind?"

"I did!" America proclaimed loudly. "He says you can go back to wearing your normal clothes!"

England sighed (again, it was probably the dress). "Oh, thank goodness." He smiled at America. "And, well...I should probably thank you since you, uh...you did help me out." England fidgeted around, playing with his hands. "So, erm...you...you have my gratitude, America."

Simple gratitude wouldn't do it, though. America wanted more. He reached forward and kissed England soundly on the lips. A big smack. Mwah was the sound he made. Just like France did sometimes when he pretended to kiss someone.

"Wh-What the bloody hell was that?" England shrieked when America pulled away and wiped his mouth.

"A kiss from your prince!" America replied happily. "I figured I deserved one, what with all the hard work I went through."

Still blushing and feeling quite awkward from the kiss, England said, "Y-Yes, you were, ah...gone for quite some time. Was everything alright?"

America was about to tell him that he just got his flight delayed, but then he realized real princes _never_ came across flight delays. "Yeah. I just had a scuffle is all. He nearly got me, ya know. He was close, but America pulls through."

"Your flight was delayed," England snorted. "Come off it, America, I know you all too well. Now stay here. I'm going to change out of this blasted thing." He headed off for his room, leaving America alone in the hallway.

Then Spain called and said, "Hey, you can't bring people back from the dead, can you?"


	20. When I Dream

**Genre: Romance/Hurt/Comfort**

**Rating: PG**

**Summary: Alfred loved to dream. Arthur couldn't stand it.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

Arthur and Alfred were very different people. They liked their toast done differently, they liked to brush their teeth differently, and they liked to talk differently.

One of the main differences between them, though, wasn't something that people could see.

No, the main difference was their dreams.

Both of them dreamed. That's fairly obvious. Everyone dreams. It's a fact of life. Their dreams weren't all _too_ different- strange and unpredictable, just like how everyone else dreams.

However, the way each one interpreted his own dream was different.

Alfred loved dreaming.

He didn't care how strange or creepy the dream was- he was ready to face it. Be it about running from dinosaurs or shooting the evil pilgrims that invaded his house, Alfred's general response was, "Bring it on."

Every morning, he would excitedly tell Arthur about what world he was in that night. Even if it _did_ involve ghosts or people's faces being carved into walls, he loved it.

The thing was, Alfred was aware that each and every dream he had was fake.

They would never happen.

They were just figments of his memory being tossed around in an attempt to keep everything together. Sometimes, he always said, the brain would just mix them up while your body was shut down. Those dinosaurs? Hey, he loved Jurassic Park. The evil pilgrims? It's called history he learned (although the pilgrims weren't really evil- like he said, the brain messed it up).

So Alfred loved to dream. He embraced his dreams wholeheartedly.

Arthur, on the other hand, wasn't too fond of dreams.

He feared what he would dream up next. He feared the world blowing up and his family and friends dying, _Alfred_ dying. He feared people with machine guns coming into his house. He feared the people that ran through the streets chanting, "The end is near!"

He couldn't stand his dreams.

He would wake Alfred up many times, shaking him to make sure he wasn't dead, to make sure he wasn't someone else, to make sure he could still be comforted.

Alfred, though rudely brought out of whatever dream he was in, would always gather Arthur into his arms and rock him back and forth.

"It's all right, Artie," he would whisper, kissing his boyfriend's forehead. "It's all right."

And Arthur would try to stop his tears, but they kept coming, they kept flowing, and he would hold onto Arthur and whisper whatever horrid nightmare he was still thinking of right then. "You died," was the most common.

Alfred would chuckle slightly, just enough to let Arthur know he meant nothing malicious by laughing. "I'm still here, Artie. I'm still here and I'm not dying anytime soon. I promise."

Arthur knew that Alfred never gave a promise he couldn't keep. Alfred would keep to that promise, and he would continue living.

"It's just a dream," Alfred would say. "It's just a dream."

According to Alfred, dreams happened to everyone. They went on every night. They came when people were asleep.

Those dreams needed to stay away. Arthur feared them and he couldn't take them.

He wouldn't sleep.

He waited until Alfred was out before silently walking out of the room. He would pace the hallways, the kitchen, the living room. He would play with their cats or read through a cookbook or watch movies online.

He secretly stocked up on energy drinks, which he would guzzle down whenever he felt too sleepy.

Of course, he couldn't stay awake _all_ the time. That was physically impossible. No, he soon began falling over and drifting off, his mind too tired to even conjure up one dream for him. He would awaken before dawn, only about three hours having gone by, and would climb into bed before Alfred noticed he was gone.

It went on like that for a week or two, but Arthur's body really couldn't handle it. He became ill, delirious, exhausted.

"I'm fine," he would mumble to Alfred at their kitchen table.

"I'm fine," he would assure his boss and co-workers.

"I'm fine," he would growl to his friends.

_I'm not fine,_ he would tell himself sadly as he watched his boyfriend drift off into a peaceful slumber, ones where the dreams weren't real and didn't frighten anyone.

Arthur wanted to be that carefree. He wanted to be able to sleep without ever being worried about what he might dream.

Finally, after three weeks of forcing himself to stay awake, Alfred managed to get the answer out of him. "Why are you so sick, Arthur?" he asked, his blue eyes wide with concern. "Don't deny it, I see the way you walk and talk and act and...something's wrong, Arthur."

Arthur blinked, his throat feeling too sore and his limbs aching like hell. "I...I won't sleep."

"You won't sleep?" Alfred narrowed his eyes. "So, we need to buy some sleeping pills or-"

"No, I _won't_ sleep," Arthur corrected. "I _can_ sleep just fine. I won't, though."

And Alfred, poor Alfred, was struggling to understand. "I...I don't..."

Arthur felt terrible for making his boyfriend worry like this. He placed his pale, shaky hand on Alfred's arm. "I refuse to sleep," he whispered, a burden suddenly being lifted off his chest. He wanted to talk about this, he realized. He didn't want to keep it a secret. "I'm so, so scared of my dreams, and I just don't ever want to sleep again. I hate dreaming, Alfred."

Alfred swallowed, his eyes growing wide again. "Arthur, that's...you're ruining yourself."

The tears sprung up. "I...I know," he replied, his voice cracking. "But, I'm just so terrified, Alfred. I know it's silly and ridiculous, but I-I'm so s-s-scared." He fell into Alfred's open arms, sobbing deeply into his chest and repeating those words over and over and over again.

"I'm scared, Alfred."

They did buy him sleeping pills after that. They bought him a new pillow. Alfred even took the liberty of buying some 'pillow mist' to spray on Arthur's new pillow. "It soothes and relaxes you," Alfred said, quoting from what the bottle said. "And gives you a better night's sleep."

Arthur was skeptical. "They won't work," he said. "They really won't work. It's my dreaming, Alfred, not my sleeping."

But Alfred, ever the optimistic, wrapped his arms around Arthur and brought them closer together, kissing his lips. "Trust me," he whispered.

If there was one thing Arthur would do, it would be trusting Alfred. He took the pills and slept that night, cuddled up close to Alfred's arms.

His dream was scary. His dream was eerie. He was terrified.

But when he woke, Alfred was right there, kissing his face all over and comforting him.

They tried again.

And again.

And again.

"Fifth time's a charm," Alfred exclaimed happily, holding out the pills.

"I'm done," Arthur muttered. "Nothing is working, Alfred. Nothing. I just can't do this. And I don't know whats wrong with me." He curled into himself on the bed, sobbing into his knees. "I hate living in this constant state of fear, Alfred. I hate it!"

Alfred set the pills down and hugged him. "Shh, Artie. You're all right. I..." He fell silent for a few minutes, just letting Arthur cry, before saying, "Let's try something new." Wiping tears from his boyfriend's face, Alfred smiled. "Think of me. Just think of me and take control of your dreams. Next time I die, remember that I told you I'd never leave you. Remember that. Next time the world blows up, remember me telling you that will never happen. Next time anything scary takes place, remember me. I'll be by your side forever, Arthur. Nothing can tear us apart."

And so, Arthur slept once more, telling Alfred, "Last time. Very last time."

He dreamed. Alfred was shot. Alfred was bleeding all over the floors.

In his dream, he sobbed over his dead body. He held onto his lifeless hand.

And he remembered.

"You said you'd never die," he whispered.

Surprisingly enough, Alfred's eyes opened. He smiled that infuriating smile of his, and said, "I'll always be by your side, Arthur."

He woke up to breakfast cooking and Alfred humming in the kitchen. Once the taller man noticed him, he grinned. "Morning, Artie!" he greeted. "Did ya sleep okay?" His expression was full of joy. "You didn't wake up none last night."

"Any," Arthur corrected, sitting at his seat. "I didn't wake up _any_ last night."

Alfred laughed. "Same old Arthur, I see. So, uh..." He flipped the pancakes. "What did ya dream about?"

Arthur smiled behind his cup of tea. "That's for me to know and you to find out."


	21. Don't Fall Asleep

**Genre: Comfort?**

**Rating: G**

**Summary: America would never let England fall asleep first, even as a child.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

When England first started staying over with America, he found the boy to be quite pleasant. He might have complained just a tad when England declared, "Bedtime!" but he was usually too sleepy to actually put up much of a fuss. He would ask for one bedtime story before drifting off into a very peaceful slumber, only awakening when the sun shone it's light on the world.

However, business matters back in his own country took him away from America, much to the boy's displeasure. The sight of him running after the ship before tripping and crying on the dock brought tears to England's own eyes, and he had to escape the rest of the crew and go down to his cabin to cry without anyone noticing.

He sent letter after letter after letter, knowing that the caretakers he hired for America would read every single one to the lad. That thought made him feel better, but only by a bit.

When he returned the next month, he had never seen America so happy. "You're back!" the toddler exclaimed, running and wrapping himself around England's leg. "I missed you, Engwand!"

England laughed. "And I missed you as well, America." He hugged his charge, breathing a sigh of relief. "My, it's so good to see you again!"

"Did I grow-ded any bigger, Engwand?" he asked, stepping back and straightening his little body up to full height. "M-My nanny said that if I ate all of my nasty food, I would grow big and strong for you!"

England studied him for a moment. It didn't look like much of a growth to him, but America was looking so hopeful that England couldn't bear to say no. "Why, I do believe you have, America!" he replied. "Soon enough, I think you'll be just as tall as me." He ruffled America's golden hair, that beautiful, golden hair, before also straightening up. "Now. How about you tell me what has happened in my absence?"

They talked for the rest of the evening, and when the bells chimed, England said, "It's time for a little boy to go to bed, now."

"I'm not wittle!" America huffed. "I'm getting big, wike you said!"

"Indeed you are," England agreed. "But, to get even bigger, you'll have to go to sleep and rest your eyes. Is that alright?"

America swallowed nervously, then nodded. "A-Awright," he muttered. He stood with England and allowed himself to be led to his room. "Can...can you wead me a bedtime story? I can't sweep without one."

Smiling fondly, England nodded. "Of course I will, America. Get into bed and I'll be there in just a minute."

The story finished and America was settled down deep in his blankets, staring at England nervously as he placed the book aside. "Um...can...can you wead another one?" the boy asked, playing with his blankets.

England blinked. America never asked for a second story. He was usually too tired to even finish the first one, and it was already pretty late for them. "Well, I was actually planning on going to my own room, America. I'm exhausted, and I have some much-needed sleep I need to catch up on." But as he stood, America grabbed at his clothes fearfully.

"Don't weave me!" he cried. "P-Pwease don't ever weave me again, Engwand!"

England's heart nearly broke. "America, lad, it's alright. I'll only be in the other room. Please, just...just keep a stiff upper lip for me, okay?"

"I-I can't!" America hiccuped, sniffing slightly. "I haven't been sweaping good since you weft, and I don't want you to weave again. Pwease stay with me tonight? Just one night, pwease?"

Who was England to reject those eyes America was giving him? Though he had never slept with the small colony, he certainly wasn't going to say no. Even if this _was_ new to him- America never really asked to sleep with him before now. "Of course, America," he said, climbing into bed. The other scooted over, then instantly curled into England and latched on tightly to his clothes.

"Y-You'll stay with me, wight?"

"Right," England muttered, kissing America's forehead. "Now go to sleep, lad. We'll wake up early and make something special for breakfast. How does that sound?"

America grinned. "Good! Night, Engwand!"

"Good night, America."

The light to the lamp was blown out and the two were left in complete darkness. It didn't take long for England to drift off to sleep but, just a short time later, he woke to America crying and shaking him.

Assuming the worst, he blinked the sleep from his eyes. "Wh-What is it, America?" he asked, sitting up and pulling the boy on his lap. "Are you alright?"

America rubbed at his nose. "I...I can't sweep," he said, wrapping his arms around England. "Don't go to sweep first. Wet me go to sweep first."

This, too, had never happened before. England struggled to comprehend America's sudden change in bedtime. "O-Okay, America," he said. "Just...just close your eyes and fall asleep. I'll be right here."

It took a few more hours, strangely enough, for America to finally go to bed. They slept until late morning, having been up for the majority of the night. England supposed it was probably just excitement of some sort, what with his return, but...then it happened the next night.

And the next.

And it continued for a while, on and off, until America grew up more and England never got much time to visit him.

"No!" America exclaimed, grabbing at England's arm. "Nuh-uh, England. You said you'd let me fall asleep first!"

England sighed, opening his eyes to glare at his boyfriend. "You honestly haven't changed on bit," he mumbled.

America looked offended. "I've changed a ton," he replied. "Plus, you _promised_ you'd let me fall asleep first, so long as I let you make me some breakfast tomorrow. And it's either dying from never sleeping or dying from your awful cooking, and I'd much rather die from your cooking any day." The superpower snorted, laying back down in bed and getting comfortable.

"Git, you used to adore my cooking as a child."

"See, I _have_ changed!" America pointed out. "Even if I still can't sleep right."

England rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You never could as a child, either. Always grabbing hold of me and shaking me awake. Ridiculous."

"Think it's insomnia?"

"Personally, I could care less what it is so long as you actually _try_ letting me have a decent sleep." He settled down close to his boyfriend, though his glare didn't waver once.

America, however, didn't seemed fazed by it. He just winked and said, "Only if I fall asleep first."

England rolled his eyes. America really hadn't changed much at all.


	22. Manuals Help

**Genre: Humor/Romance**

**Rating: PG-13: Mentions of sex**

**Summary: Arthur meets a very imaginative boy playing by his favorite tree.**

**Disclaimer: After picking up a 'toy' spaceship Arthur found on the ground, he finds his life overtaken by Alfred the alien, who needs help getting back home**

* * *

From the first time Alfred laid eyes on him, he knew some strange force was telling him that they were meant to be together. He and that blond-haired, bushy-eyebrowed, handsome human were just so meant to be together.

Mainly because the blond-haired, bushy-eyebrowed, handsome human took his ship.

Alfred had to shrink the thing so it wouldn't be noticeable by this human, but the human was a tricky one. The human continued searching as Alfred sat there, invisible and stiff. And, when the human found the tiny ship, he picked it up and went right back to his strange, moving vehicle.

So Alfred assumed destiny was tying them together or something, since he sure as hell wouldn't be able to go back to his planet without his ship. That was utterly impossible.

Still invisible, Alfred followed him, locking himself in the back of the human's moving vehicle and only getting out ten minutes after it stopped- he had to make sure the human didn't see him, obviously. Even if destiny wanted to have a hand in Alfred's relationships (or lack thereof), the alien would have none of it. Nope, he just wanted to take his ship, enlarge it, fix it, and go right back home. Despite the perfection of this human.

He crept into the house as the human lay on the bed, moaning and complaining about job loss or something. When he punched his pillow, Alfred cringed. "Barbaric," he whispered, shaking his head. He studied the human for a few more minutes before deciding that his only goal was to find his ship and go home.

Except the human's living quarters were rather messy. Alfred glanced over at all of knick-knacks lining the various shelves before he noticed his ship. "Ah-ha!" he whispered in triumph.

Then, as he reached out towards his ship, his hand hit a vase and it fell over, shattering on the floor. Alfred heard the human stand from the bed.

"Who's there?" he called out, glancing nervously around the living quarters.

Alfred thanked his lucky stars he was invisible.

"I'm warning you," the voice said. "I...I have a gun!" And he picked up some strange stick laying near his side. Alfred recognized it from his manual- a golf club. Used to play some sort of sport in which humans would hit a tiny ball and try and get it into a tiny hole. Huh. Mighty interesting. He smirked, picking up his ship. As if a golf club could hurt him. If it was used for recreation, it must not really hurt all too bad.

However, the human must have noticed a floating ship for the next thing Alfred knew, the golf club came down on his head, hitting one of his antennas and forcing the invisibility booster to wear off instantly.

All Alfred could do was blink before he fell over.

When he woke up, he wasn't sure how much time had passed. All he knew was that he was naked and the human had also seemed to have fallen over. "How did he get this huge bump?" Alfred asked, bending over to peer at the man.

"Oh, that was me!" And there came Alfred's gray spacesuit, flexing it's non-existent muscles and looking as tough as a space suit could look. "He was trying to get ya again, but I reached up and fought him. Oh, and did we ever fight! 'Cept I won, 'cause I'm so much more awesome and-"

"Cool." Alfred narrowed his eyes. "Something is strange about him, that's for sure."

The suit stepped up next to Alfred. "Like what?"

Alfred, however, couldn't explain it, especially not to a suit. "Dunno." He sighed, straightening back up. "What should we do with him?"

"Throw him out the window and declare this area as ours!" The suit exclaimed.

Alfred made a face. "That's rude, Gil. No, we need to do something that...that would keep him out of our hands until he woke up."

And that's why Alfred used his alien powers to stick the human to the top of the ceiling. As expected, the guy woke up screaming bloody murder.

"Geez, would it kill ya to be a bit quieter?" Alfred asked, looking up at him. "I'm trying to make some space down here, but I can't do it when you're acting like I'm about to kill you."

The human stared fearfully at Alfred. "Wh-What are you d-doing?" he asked, gripping onto the ceiling lamp. "P-Please let me down!"

"If you insist!" Alfred exclaimed, pointing his finger and letting the man fall to the floor. Without so much as a second glance, Alfred returned to staring back at his reflection in the mirror, pushing the antenna back into his head. "What is it with you humans and the need to use physical violence all the time? You, like, totally put a dent in my antenna." And it hurt like hell pushing it down into his head.

The man picked himself up off the floor and started walking towards him. "You bastard!" he snapped. "Who are you to come into my-" He was cut off with another scream when Alfred flung him right back on the ceiling. "St-Stop, I'll quit yelling, just let me down."

"Make up your mind," Alfred grumbled, once again letting the man fall to the floor. He spun around this time, grinning and holding out his hand. "Pleased to meet ya, earthling! My name is Alfred!"

The man glared at the hand, obviously unwilling to take it. "So, you're...you're an alien?"

"Nah. You guys are the aliens to me." Alfred smirked. "What's your name? I keep calling you 'human' in my head, but you gotta have a name of some sort."

The man swallowed. "A-Arthur," he said, his voice hushed. "Ar-Arthur Kirkland. Why...why are-"

"You forgetting someone?"

Arthur glanced around. "Who...who was that?"

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Gil. He's my suit. Gil, that's Arthur, Arthur, this is Gil."

"I bet you're pleased to meet such an awesome suit!" Gil happily announced.

Arthur blinked. "The suit talks," he mumbled.

"Well, he used to be a regular, old person, like myself, but he was punished for stealing something and turned into a suit. Just for the trip we were taking. It was only supposed to be a few days, but..." He motioned over to their tiny ship. "This thing broke down while we were flying and we kinda crash landed on the closest planet, which is your planet, as you know now, so we're stuck until I can somehow fix this thing."

The young man just stared. "You're...oh, this can't be happening." He turned around, his back facing Alfred and his strange suit, and began slapping himself. "Snap out of it, Arthur, old chap," the two aliens heard him hiss. "You're just dreaming. It's all a dream."

"What's he doing?" Gil wondered.

"Maybe some sort of human ritual," Alfred said in awe, watching the man continue to hit himself. "No matter! Since I've rearranged his living quarters, I'm sure he won't mind if I make the ship bigger. I'd like to fix it and get off this stupid place." And Alfred reached into one of his pockets (or, rather, one of Gil's pockets) and brought out a little remote control. He pressed one of the buttons, pointing it at the ship, and grinned as the ship began to grow.

Arthur, on the other hand, didn't seem as pleased. "Wh-What the bloody hell are you doing?" he yelled as the ship ruining his coffee table and whatever else Alfred had forgotten to remove.

Once the ship was back to it's full size again, Alfred sighed, patting it softly. "This is my ship," he explained.

Arthur stared. "Y-Yes, I figured that out all on my own."

"Anyway, I need to fix it, like I said. Do you have any, uh, ship-fixing shops around the town? I only need a few things, not much."

However, letting the ship grow out to it's full size seemed to make Arthur angrier than before. "No. No, you're not fixing my ship. You're going to shrink it and leave my apartment! I can't deal with this right now! I just lost a job when I was aiming for a promotion, and I have no idea what I'm-"

He was cut off by the doorbell ringing. They both stared at the hallway. "Strange," Alfred mused. "I didn't know you would have friends."

"Hold what I was saying," Arthur growled. "Stay right there. Don't move. I actually have proof of aliens and people won't think I'm crazy." With one last glare at Alfred, he ran off to open the door.

It was silent for a second, then Gil asked, "You gonna listen to Mr. Grouchy Pants?" he asked.

Alfred slowly shook his head. "Nope. I read in the manual that the less people who know I'm an alien, the better." And he pressed the button and shrunk the ship, placing it softly on the couch and sitting beside it, just as Arthur dragged some lady into the room.

The first thing Alfred noticed was that her hair was in this ugly style and she had far too much makeup on for it to be normal.

"Arthur, what on earth happened to your place?" she asked, gazing around the destroyed room in wonder. "It's a mess!"

Arthur glanced around in alarm. "The ship?" he finally asked Alfred. "Where's the ship?"

"What ship?" Alfred retorted, smirking and playing innocent.

"You know all too well what ship I'm talking about!" Arthur snapped. "Where is it?"

Alfred blinked. "Oh, this ship?" he asked, picking up his little spaceship. "Yes, I was just playing with it." He stood and grinned at the lady. "Pleased to meet ya, Miss, uh..."

The lady smiled. "Merriam. My name is Merriam. And who might you be? And, er...if you don't mind me asking, what is this you are wearing?"

Before Alfred could respond, Arthur cut in. "He's an al-"

"No," Alfred shook his head.

"Shut it. Merriam, he's an al-"

"An Alfred," Alfred quickly said. "Um...yes, my name is Alfred. And this is...a space suit. I'm in, uh...a play." He gave her one of his best smiles, and Arthur stared at him in exasperation.

Merriam smiled, batting her eyelashes furiously. Alfred wondered if it was some sort of seduction process. He believed he read about this in the manual. "Well, I'm very pleased to meet you Alfred," she said, holding her hand out.

That's when Alfred's mind went blank. What was he supposed to do with hands? He glanced at Arthur for a hint, but it appeared Mr. Grumpy Pants wasn't going to help him any. Okay, so...kissing was a form of greeting, wasn't it? That was what his manual told him. Maybe he was supposed to kiss her hand?

Ah, but how did people kiss? It had to do with the mouth and tongue and maybe the teeth. Should he bite it? But that didn't seem right. That was like cannibalism.

The woman cleared her throat and Alfred took her hand, grinning, then suddenly licked the palm of it.

Both Arthur and Merriam looked horrified, so Alfred figured that was the wrong thing to do.

"Oh, uh...my...my apologies," he stammered, turning red. "I wasn't, uh...thinking right." He let her hand go, and Arthur groaned, turning away and rubbing his temples.

Merriam just swallowed nervously, wiping her hand on her pants. "It-It's quite alright," she said. "You're a very handsome man."

Arthur decided to put a word in. "He's an alien!" he exclaimed, facing the two again. "That ship is actually huge, his suit talks, and he does this weird finger thing to make people stick to ceilings!"

Alfred scoffed. "Oh, Artie, you're such a silly man. No, he's just messing with you, Merriam. We're actually good friends."

Merriam smiled softly. "Um, well...Arthur is known for being a bit eccentric some of the time."

"No, it's true!" Arthur said. "Look, he...Alfred, give her the finger."

"Arthur!" Merriam gasped, looking quite offended. Alfred wondered what 'the finger' meant.

Arthur blushed. "I meant...no, it..." He sighed, turning away and falling on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

Alfred glanced over at him, then back at Merriam. "Well. He's just a bit stressed. He lost a job and all."

"Oh." Merriam glanced at Arthur. "I hope whatever he has isn't contagious."

Was stress contagious on this planet? Weird. Alfred shrugged and led Merriam to the door. "Yeah, well, he should be getting his rest now. Uh, have a nice day! Night! Whatever it is!" And, without waiting for her to reply, he pushed the lady outside, closing and locking the door.

"You weren't supposed to lick her hand," Arthur mumbled once Alfred stepped back into the living room.

"Figured as much," Alfred said, peeking through the blinds as the lady left. "What is she to you?"

"Neighbors. She's a strange one. Flirts with every guy she can." Arthur sat up. "Now, may we discuss getting you back to your home planet?"

Alfred smirked, facing the man. "To do that, I need to fix my ship. And, to do that, I need the supplies. Got anywhere I can put it for now?"

Arthur opened his mouth, but Alfred knelt beside him. "Please?" he begged. "I promise I won't be too much trouble!"

"Yeah, we're only gonna fix the ship and be off, Mr. Grumpy Pants," Gil supplied. "Also, you people have strange rituals when it comes to greeting humans of the female species."

"That's because he wasn't _doing_ it correctly!" Arthur snapped. "You aren't supposed to lick...oh, why the hell am I talking to a suit?"

Alfred frowned, standing back up. "I was kissing her!" he argued. "That's what people are supposed to do on this planet. They kiss!"

"That wasn't a kiss! That was...I don't even know what you were attempting."

"Then what's a kiss? How do you preform it? I need to know so I can greet other people correctly next time," Alfred said, looking a bit embarrassed.

Arthur sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "Kisses are only preformed on people you're close to, and it only involves the lips, really, unless you're in the confines of your home and you wish to, er...be intimate."

Alfred blinked. "So...when I licked her, that gave off the impression that I wanted to be her mate?"

And he swore he saw the ghost of a smile on Arthur's face. "No. No, you gave off the impression that you just came out of a mental home."

"Well, she was still trying to seduce me," Alfred muttered.

"She does that to everyone. Anyway, the proper way to greet someone on this planet is through a handshake." He held out his hand and grabbed Alfred's hand, then shook their hands. "Like this."

Alfred stared at their hands. "Well, this seems simple. Is that what she was trying to get me to do?"

"I would assume, yes," Arthur said.

"Cool." Storing away this information for later, Alfred smiled. "So, what do you say to me putting my ship somewhere in your place?" He gave his award-winning kicked-puppy eyes, his lower lip jutting out in a pout. "Please?"

Arthur stared at Alfred for a minute before finally rolling his eyes. "Yes. Yes, but only until the ship is fixed. I have a basement down below that's not used for much. Plus, there's a washing machine in there for, uh...for Gil."

Both Alfred and Gil seemed to look excited, if space suits could look excited. Gil somehow made it possible. "Really?" Alfred nearly squealed. "Thanks, Artie! Um...how do people show their appreciation on this planet?"

Arthur blushed. "Um...hugs, sometimes, or-"

"What's a hug?"

"It's...it's when you wrap your arms around someone and..." And he trailed off, for Alfred decided to try this new thing called a hug. It seemed awkward.

"Am I doing this right?" he asked, squeezing Arthur tightly.

Arthur gasped. "You're going to suffocate me if you don't let go."

"Sorry." Alfred released him. "Maybe I need practice?"

"Maybe," Arthur muttered, still blushing and straightening out his clothes. "Anyway, we can go shopping for materials to fix your ship later. For now, do you mind if we sleep? I'm rather exhausted."

Alfred nodded. "Oh, me, too. Sleeping sounds awesome. I do sleeping very well."

Arthur smiled softly. "You can take the couch. Good night, Alfred." He shuffled away, walking over his broken table.

"Night, Artie!" Alfred said, waving him off until the man reached a different room and closed the door. "Alright, Gil. Now we sleep!"

"Sounds good to me," Gil said, and Alfred dumped himself onto the couch, closing his eyes and dreaming of hugs and licks.

He woke Arthur up when he himself woke up. "Rise and shine, Artie! It's time to go shopping so I can go home!"

Arthur groaned, rolling over in his bed. "Alfred, it's..." He glanced at his clock. "Alfred, it's five in the morning! We only had three hours of sleep!"

"Three hours?" Alfred blinked. "I was tired."

Gil gave a humming noise. "Didn't know you would ever sleep that late, Alfred."

"Yeah, neither did I!" He pulled Arthur up from bed. "Up, up, up, Artie! Ooh, I like your night clothes. They have ducks all over them!"

Arthur sighed. "Alfred, please just let me sleep for a bit longer. It's been a long day and I-"

"Alright! I'll just go out on my own, then!"

Arthur glared at him. "I'll get dressed," he snarled through gritted teeth. "And I'm going to get some clothes for you. You can't wear, uh...Gil and have people think you're...you're _normal._"

Alfred looked down at Gil. "What's wrong with Gil?"

"Yeah, what's wrong with me?" Gil demanded.

"Alfred, it's a talking-"

"_He,_" Gil interrupted. "_He_ is a talking suit."

"Yes, whatever. Point is, people will assume things about you. I just think you should wear something, er...something more normal. I believe I have some jeans and t-shirts that might fit you." When Alfred opened his mouth to respond, Arthur interrupted, "Besides, I think Gil might like a chance to be off your body."

Gil seemed to agree with that. "I know more about Alfred's body than I would ever like to know," he muttered.

"Fine." Alfred shrugged. "Uh, so you said he'd like the machine of the washers?"

"Washing machine," Arthur corrected. "And, yes, we could try seeing how well he does there." Before he could go to grab some clothes for Alfred from the dresser, however, it seemed that Gil decided he wanted to go into the washing machine right then and there, for he flew himself off of Alfred's body, leaving the alien stark naked in Arthur's bedroom.

Alfred, noticing how Arthur's eyes grew wide before he spun around, covered himself with his hands. "Uh, indecent?" he asked. "G-Gil, quit strutting around the room! You're a suit, and you're made to be worn, not randomly throw yourself off of me whenever you got the chance!"

It didn't seem like Gil was listening, though. "I get a break from being clothes!" he exclaimed, jumping into the air. "I get to be washed in a machine thing!"

Arthur, keeping his eyes away, made his way to the dresser and began flinging clothes at Alfred. "U-Underwear, socks, pants, and a shirt," he said. "H-Hurry and get dressed so I can, uh, t-turn around. Please."

Alfred didn't have to be told twice. He shimmied into the clothes and beamed. "Alright! Done!" When Arthur turned around, the alien rubbed at his neck. "Sorry. Gil is kinda, uh...uncontrollable."

"I noticed," Arthur muttered. "Well, if you two wouldn't mind leaving me for a few minutes so I myself can change. I'll put Gil into the wash when I'm done, and then we can go shopping for your ship parts, Alfred."

As they walked to the store, Alfred caught sight of two humans holding hands and laughing. He remembered that, in his manual, that was a signal they were close. He wanted to show everyone that he was normal and close to another human.

So he reached out and grabbed Arthur's hand, grinning at the man as he did so.

Arthur blushed, which Alfred noticed he had been doing a lot of lately. "Wh-Why are we holding hands?" he asked, clearing his throat.

"My manual says it's a way to show that you're close to someone! I wanna be close to you, so I'm holding your hand!"

"Al-Alfred, that's, er...holding hands is more of...of an intimate act."

Alfred pouted. "Then how else am I supposed to show that we're friends? The manual also says that you should laugh loudly when you're with friends, but you told me not to attract too much attention to myself, so I thought holding hands would be the best thing to do."

Luckily for him, Arthur fidgeted a tad but didn't pull away. Alfred figured that meant they had taken their relationship level up a step- no longer was Alfred the crazy alien who ruined Arthur's apartment! Nope, he was Arthur's friend.

Feeling as if he was floating on Planet Nine, Alfred entered some sort of mechanical store with Arthur, and they looked around for the parts they needed together, Alfred filling up the cart with as much as he could.

"Most of this is useless," Arthur complained as he pushed the cart (Alfred having let go of his hand). "Honestly, what will you need this for, Alfred?" He picked up something Alfred had just thrown in, glaring at the alien.

Alfred took the strange contraption from him. "The sign says it's a 'pooper scooper'. We don't have such a thing as 'pooper scoopers' on our planet. I guess it goes into your small vehicles."

"They're called cars."

"Ah, right, duh!" Alfred hit his head. "Sorry. I forgot." He set the pooper scooper back down. "Besides, don't you think it's awesome? I do. I wanna show it to Gil."

Arthur groaned. "Do you have everything you need, Alfred? The cart is getting heavy and my wallet is still light."

Alfred glanced over at his stuff. "Uh...yeah. I think so. They didn't have most of what would fix my ship, but I can put a lot of this together and make the parts myself. This pooper scooper might come in handy. Who knows?"

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Yes. Yes, it might come in handy. Now let's go check out and you can hold me while I cry over the loss of all this money."

"Hold you? Really? I read that earthlings do that with people they really like! So I can hold you?"

"It was a joke!" Arthur snapped, beginning to push the cart away. "Jesus, you take everything so seriously."

After checking out, Arthur loaded up the car and took Alfred for some ice cream. They sat at a park bench and ate. The alien acted as if it was the most amazing thing he had ever tasted.

"Oh, damn, this stuff is _awesome!_" he exclaimed, licking at the cream dripping down the cone. "How come we don't have any of these on my planet?"

"I'm just curious, what planet _is_ your planet?" Arthur asked, glancing at the trees in front of him.

"Mars," Alfred instantly replied. "You guys send little robots up there all the time, and you get _so_ excited over a rock. It's fun to watch."

Arthur blinked, looking over at his new friend. "But we have pictures of Mars. There aren't any alien civilizations out there!"

"You actually think we'd let ourselves be seen?" Alfred snorted. "No, we have invisibility shields around all the towns, so you guys can never see us. Plus, if your robots get to close to entering or boundaries, we send our own invisible robots out to guide yours away." He grinned, ice cream all over his face. "We're smarter than you guys, I guess."

Arthur smirked. "You have ice cream everywhere, Alfred," he murmured, taking his napkin and beginning to dab the sticky treat off of the young alien. He stopped when he noticed Alfred's sky-blue eyes just staring into his own green ones. "Wh-What?" he asked, his voice coming out hushed.

It took a few seconds, but then Alfred poked one of his eyebrows. "Oh, phew, they're not alive," he said, leaning back in his seat and wiping at the rest of his mouth with his hand. "Once I saw you, I was afraid they had, like, mutated into creatures or something."

Arthur gaped at him, a fine blush spreading about his cheeks. "Y-You git!" he exclaimed, hitting Alfred's shoulder. "Honestly, saying such rude things like that to some man you just met! They're a family trait, and I'm very happy with them!" He glared ahead and went back to eating his ice cream, which was a difficult task to do when one was trying to be angry.

"Aw, I didn't mean to offend you none. I've just never seen such big eyebrows." When that clearly didn't seem to make anything better, Alfred patted Arthur's back. "There, there. I think they're very nice. Plus, you have such pretty eyes."

If anything, Arthur blushed more. "Th-Thank you, I guess," he muttered, refusing to meet Alfred's gaze.

Alfred sat back in his seat. "If I wasn't leaving so soon, I'd do something intimate with you. My manual told me intimate people were always the closest. Or something like-"

Arthur began choking on his ice cream. "Don't say such things," he hissed, glancing about to make sure no one was listening in on them. "We only just met, like I told you! Now, just...no. That won't ever happen. Eat your ice cream and shut up."

They ate in silence after that.

It took a few days, but Alfred finally finished fixing his ship. He even tested it in Arthur's basement, cheering when it lifted from the ground. "It works!" he yelled, turning the engine off and running out of the ship to hug Arthur tightly. He had gotten a lot better with hugs, having either practiced on Gil or Arthur (the former being in the washing machine all other times), and now seemed to give them out excessively. "We got it to work, and it really works!"

Arthur smiled at him. "Great job, Alfred!" he congratulated, awkwardly patting the alien's back. "Now you can go back home."

"Yep! Gil! We can go back...back home." Alfred trailed off, biting at his lip. "Wow. I was kinda getting used to staying here."

"It's only been a few days, Alfred," Arthur pointed out.

"Yeah, I know, but...I actually like it here. I thought I'd never want for anything more than to leave, but you've showed me so much and now I realize that earth is a really fun place." He sighed. "But...yeah. I guess I should go. I doubt you'll want an alien living with you." He chuckled, trying to dispel the awkward atmosphere surrounding them, but it wasn't really helping all too much.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Yes, well, you...you can come visit me whenever you wish, just so long as you don't let anyone else see you."

Alfred grinned. "And you'll take me out for ice cream and maybe we can actually use the pooper scooper?"

With a laugh, Arthur nodded his head. "Ice cream and a pooper scooper. My, but you're an easy alien to please."

He drove Alfred and Gil to the local beach in the middle of the night, where no one would see them fly away. Gil was already inside, writing a letter to the king of Mars to ask him to build washing machines around the towns, and Alfred was outside saying his final goodbyes.

"Doubt I'll be able to return much. We aliens aren't too keen on visiting, just in case it, you know, ruins our secret lives." He scratched at his chin, averting his gaze from Arthur. "I'll...I'll miss you, Artie. I had a lot of fun with you."

Arthur swallowed. "Yes. Yes, I'll miss you as well."

The young alien wet his lips. "B-Before Gil and I head off...do you mind if, uh...if we can share a kiss?" He asked this shyly, hiding his face from Arthur. "To show that...that we're 'intimate', that we're the closest two people can ever get."

Arthur stared at him for a few seconds, and Alfred was so afraid he'd be rejected, but then the man said, "Of course," as quietly as he could.

Alfred had no idea what to do, but Arthur seemed more than willing to take control. He gently grabbed Alfred's chin, bringing him down a little bit so their lips could reach, and then he kissed him. It was a chaste kiss, very simple and quick, but once Arthur pulled away, Alfred found himself wanting more.

He found himself with this knot in his stomach and pain in his heart.

"Goodbye, Alfred," Arthur whispered, stepping back and wringing his hands together. "Don't e-ever forget me, you hear?"

"Yeah. 'Course I won't." Alfred waved before stepping onto his ship. "Bye, Artie. Stay cool." And the last sight he caught of Arthur was a smile and a couple of tears rolling down his cheeks. The door closed then, and Alfred was left on the ship, his heart laying somewhere in Arthur's apartment and his mind only on the incredible earthling standing there and watching as the ship flew away.

Days passed, yet Arthur continued to laze about the house, feeling all too sluggish to even bother going out and looking for a new job. He only ever answered the calls of his closest friends and, once, the call of Merriam.

"I haven't seen Alfred recently," she said. "Where is he?"

Arthur struggled to control his sadness. "Back home," he muttered,

He was back home, and Arthur was back home, but nothing was the same. It wasn't as happy without Alfred. It wasn't as joyful without Alfred. Everything was quiet and lonely and still broken. He left his apartment a mess, just wanting Alfred to come back and clean everything up for him.

But he told himself not to get his hopes up. He told himself that every time he heard a plane or a helicopter fly by, every time something strange was discovered on the news, every time he walked into his apartment and noticed his broken coffee table.

And then there was that one time he came back from the store and saw Alfred sitting on his couch and eating a bag of chips.

"Now I'm hallucinating," he muttered, stomping to his kitchen to put his groceries away.

"Artie!" Alfred threw the bag of chips and ran to the Briton, gathering him in a tight hug and making him drop all of the bags he was carrying. "Oh, gosh, I really missed you!"

Arthur felt his heart beat wildly. He could _feel_ this hallucination. He could actually _feel_ it. But, no, it couldn't be real. Alfred had told him he wasn't going to visit. "I-I'm just getting my hopes up," he said. "You're not real."

Alfred frowned. "You know, this is almost as weird as the time you slapped yourself when I told you what I was," he said. "Look, Artie, I'm real!"

"No, no you're not."

"Am so! And...and I'll prove it!"

His way of proving it was to kiss Arthur, returning the favor from that night just a few days earlier. Except he decided to add in the 'licking' as well- without any warning, he stuck his tongue into Arthur's mouth, exploring the insides.

Arthur felt weak at the knees, and when he pulled back, his eyes were wide. "You're...you're _here!_" he exclaimed. "You're real! You've come back to me!"

"'Course I did! I had to return these clothes, right? Plus, Mars is boring. Earth is new and exciting and it has the bestest guy ever! His name is Arthur Kirkland and his house is dirty."

Arthur laughed, hugging Alfred tightly. "But...but how? There isn't a ship nearby, and where's Gil?"

"He's human again. They took pity on him and stuff. Mainly 'cause they listened to me when I told them to change him back. Then, Gil said he wanted to do something nice for me, and all I wanted was to see you again and stay with you forever and be 'intimate' together, so Gil dropped me off here and went back home. I'll miss him, but...we're not as close as you and I are." He grinned, placing a kiss to Arthur's cheek. "Also, I read that humans also can show their 'intimacy' by saying 'I love you'. So I wanted to say it, 'cause that's how I feel." He stared Arthur in the eyes, beamed widely, and said, "I love you, Arthur Kirkland!"

Arthur felt like crying of happiness. He buried his head into Alfred's chest, choosing to laugh loudly instead. "And I love you, Alfred. I love you."

Alfred used his 'finger' to help Arthur fix up the apartment, apologizing for getting it messy in the first place. He showed himself to Merriam again, but made it a point to kiss Arthur's hand right in front of her. She left in a hurry and didn't really talk much to them after that.

Arthur always kept a stock of ice cream in his freezer- as it turned out, Alfred could eat an entire gallon in just a few hours (which he did quite often, actually).

The sleeping arrangements did prove to be a problem at first, but Alfred eventually slept in Arthur's own bed and trained himself to sleep later and later, until the night where he slept as long as Arthur did.

He helped Arthur get a job as a journalist for a local magazine, and Arthur helped him get a job as the ice cream man of the local park.

Months later, Arthur and Alfred finally made love, gently and peacefully and Arthur wanted to cry from how perfect everything was.

"How is making love different from mating?" Alfred asked afterward, as they were ready to drift off to sleep.

Arthur hummed, curling in closer to Alfred's warm, naked body. "Making love is the final step to complete intimacy," he whispered, tracing Alfred's jaw with his fingers. "Mating is something you can do with anyone. Making love is for that special someone, though." He kissed Alfred's neck, smiling softly as Alfred sighed contently.

"So, now we're, like, the ultimate partners?" Alfred asked, closing his eyes and resting his head against the pillow. "Now we'll never be apart."

Arthur laughed quietly. "I think you made it clear that, from the moment we met, we'd never be apart," he replied, also closing his eyes and using Alfred's chest as a pillow.

"Yeah, well, when I find such a perfect human specimen, like hell will I let him go."

"Same here." Arthur brushed some hair from his eyes. "Thanks for colliding into my world, Alfred."

He felt Alfred chuckle. "Anytime, Artie. Just say the word and I'll do it all over again."


	23. Our Olympic Games

**Genre: Humor**

**Rating: PG**

**Summary: Alfred and Arthur decide to celebrate the Olympics by holding their own version of the Olympic Games, complete with knitting and pillow fights.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

"You know, this is our first year together watching the Olympics," Alfred pointed out one night as the two sat down to watch a game of water polo- Team America vs. Team GB. Arthur was silently cursing to himself when he had to be forced to watch as America scored six points without Britain even getting in one.

"Yes, I'm aware of that, Alfred," the Englishman muttered, contemplating turning the television off and running to the bathroom to rant and possibly cry a little.

However, he felt Alfred poke his arm, a small smirk on the younger man's face. "We should totally, like, do something!"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Like what?" he asked. "The Olympics take place in London, not Florida, and, even if it _was_ here, it would cost far too much money to go to."

"I'm not talking about _going_ to the Olympics!" Alfred exclaimed. "I'm talking about recreating them ourselves?"

Arthur blinked. "What?"

"Yeah!" His boyfriend jumped up from the couch, looking far more excited than he should have been looking. "Like, we can hold our own special events and then complete them and...and the winner will get...um..." He glanced around. "The winner will get to tell the loser what to do for a whole week! And the loser _has_ to do everything the winner tells him to do!"

Though Alfred's idea was childish and stupid, Arthur did like the part where he could be Alfred's master for a week. "Well, I suppose I'll humor you for a little bit," he muttered. "What events shall we have?"

Alfred grinned. "I was thinking that we each could come up with five events. Any sort of events- silly, serious, fun, weird, whatever you want. Then, we complete one event each day and, whoever completes it first or fastest or does it the best or whatever...they're the winner of that day. So we'll have ten days to complete these events and then we'll decide the overall winner."

Surprisingly enough, it actually sounded like an interesting idea. Arthur raised his large eyebrows. "Do we decide now, or would you like to do it later?"

"Now!" Alfred instantly exclaimed, grabbing one of Arthur's journals from the coffee table. He tore them both a sheet of paper and passed Arthur a pen. "Now, just write down five events you'd like to see in our own Olympic games, and I'll write-"

"I get it, Alfred, no need to explain every step to me," Arthur mumbled, already beginning to write a few events on his sheet.

After they were both done, Alfred was the one who planned the events out on their calender. "We'll start on Monday," he said. "So, like, three days from now. And we'll go with..." He stared down at the ten events before saying, "Speed-cleaning." With a quick glare at the smirking Arthur, Alfred wrote it down. "Might as well get the boring ones out of the way first."

"Hey, now, don't do all of mine at once. Put one of yours up now."

"Fine." Alfred easily picked out his event- 'Hamburger Eating Contest'.

Needless to say, Arthur wasn't very amused. "Seriously?" he growled. "You know I can barely eat one of those things without choking."

"Which is why I chose it. Easy win for me. Plus, I'll get to eat as many hamburgers as I want without you lecturing me about calories and cholesterol and stuff."

Arthur sighed. "Whatever. Just hurry it along."

So Alfred did, naming the events out as he went. "Wednesday is knitting- you're killing me, Artie-, Thursday is football- American football,- Friday is music- that's actually a good choice-, next Monday is running, then Tuesday is soccer- there you go, Artie-, Wednesday is pillow fighting, Thursday is a quiet contest- seriously?-, and Friday is cooking."

The Englishman groaned, about ready to complain that he would never win at some of those tasks, but Alfred beat him to it.

"Okay, so we already know that you win at speed-cleaning, knitting, and the quiet contest. And I'll be winning at everything else."

Well, now he wasn't going to whine, not when Alfred presented him with such a challenge. "We'll see," he muttered, already making it a point to do his very best in every event.

As expected, speed-cleaning was rather simple for him. However, he had to admit that Alfred put up a pretty good fight. "I don't wanna do that ever again," his boyfriend moaned. "Why did you make me work on the bathrooms?"

"Because you're an absolute slob when it comes to keeping our toilets clean. It's disgusting."

"Yeah, exactly _why_ I never clean the restroom. Geez."

He did cheer up considerably when the next event came about.

Arthur, however, felt like he was going to die after his second burger.

"You done?" Alfred asked, picking up his sixth.

"Quite," Arthur burped, holding his stomach in pain.

The week continued like this, Arthur winning at knitting, Alfred winning at football, and both arguing who won at music, which finally resulted in a tie.

They got the weekend to rest before restarting their Olympic games, beginning with running (which Alfred, of course, won at). Somehow, someway, he also won the next day at soccer, to the complete horror of Arthur. But the Englishman was able to get him back by defeating Alfred at both pillow fighting and the quiet contest.

As per usual, Alfred was far better in cooking.

They counted up the scores and came to the conclusion that neither of them had won.

"It's a tie?" Alfred muttered.

"Well, this is surprising."

"Duh. I mean, I thought for sure I'd win at pillow fighting."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Love, you were far too soft on me. I'm not some sort of delicate flower that will break at the slightest touch. I can take care of myself perfectly fine."

Alfred nodded. "Yeah. Sure. Anyway, now we need some sort of tie-breaker."

They brainstormed a few ideas for a little bit, but all their ideas were biased towards the one who gave it.

Arthur was the one who finally said, "Best sex."

Unlike with all his other ideas, Alfred actually looked thoughtful. "That...that's actually a pretty good idea. Right now?"

"Yes. Right now."

They both won at that, too.


	24. The Golden Opportunity

**Genre: Humor/Friendship**

**Rating: PG**

**Summary: England caves and asks France for help on how to win America's heart.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

England sighed before sipping his tea, glaring over at France. "There had better be nothing French in here," he growled under his breath, smacking his lips just to make sure it was tea and nothing but tea.

France rolled his eyes. "Honestly, _Angleterre,_ how would I be able to slip in French food? It's tea."

"You have your ways, Frog," Arthur retorted, placing his hands in his lap. "Now, you told me you'd help me win America's heart. And as bloody much as I hate your help, I'm very willing to listen if it will help me become closer to America."

Ah, this was what he lived for. Matchmaking. He adored watching couples discover their love for each other. Nothing was more special than two humans finding the one they wished to be with forever, and he wanted to help every single one of them along in that journey, just so he could see the expression on their faces and the brightness of their eyes. Even England, who was known for being grumpy and cynical, would be smiling by the time France was finished with his matchmaking.

"_Oui,_ of course," he said with a smile. "Now, please tell me...how do you know you love our young _Amérique?_"

England blinked. "Must you ask? I mean, I know I love him and that's that."

"Answer the question or I will not tell you how to win his heart."

"This is stupid, Frog, I'm going-"

"Answer." France narrowed his eyes. "Otherwise I believe I can take _Amérique_ for myself."

England glared at the French country, who glared right back. "Fine," he growled through gritted teeth. "I know I love him because my stomach gets butterflies whenever he's around. I know I love him because I find myself gazing at him and wondering just what it would be like to get physically closer. I know I love him because he says something stupid and, though I might chide him about it, I still can't help but inwardly smile at his childish innocence." He took a deep breath. "Good enough? Or would you like me to write a song about it?"

France smirked. "_Non,_ that's quite alright." He stood from his seat, stroking the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. "I know how sincere you are about this now. You don't simply wish to climb into his bed and-"

England spit out the tea he had just been drinking. "W-Wanker!" he yelled. "Who said anything about having sex?"

"No one, of course. I'm just pleased that isn't all you want." France grinned at the flustered Englishman. "You see, I can't _stand_ it when others approach me for advice and then I learn that all they wish is for one quick night in bed. That isn't love. That's lust. And I don't do well with lust. I am-"

"I get it," England grumbled. "You're the country of love. Whoop-de-fucking-do." He sighed. "Just...just tell me how to win America's heart. Please?"

Of course, since England said please, France wasn't going to refuse him of anything now. "_Angleterre,_ do you know what words I live by?"

England stared at him for a second before muttering, "I give up." Before France could say anything, however, the smaller nation grinned bitterly. "Well? Am I right?"

It took France a minute to process that, and, once he did, he frowned. "Do you want my help or not?"

"Fine, sorry, I was just joking." England rolled his eyes. "Now, do tell me the strange words you live your life according to."

Ignoring the sarcasm (and obvious lack of a sincere apology), France sat back down. "_Tout vient à point à qui sait attendre."_ He raised his eyebrows. "I trust you understand French just as well as you did some time ago."

England translated it in his head. "All things come to those who wait," he murmured. France nodded. "Well...what the bloody hell is that supposed to mean? What am I supposed to wait for?"

France raised a finger. "You must wait for the golden opportunity, _Angleterre_."

"And that's supposed to win the boy's heart?" England deadpanned. "I'm just supposed to sit back like some Disney princess and...and wait?" He scoffed. "Not happening, Frog. I don't wait for anything."

"Would you wait for _Amérique?"_ France asked, raising his eyebrows.

England fell silent. "Well...I...I suppose I would," he grumbled. "But only if he doesn't take his time. He's so oblivious at times, I doubt he'll even notice I'm waiting for him."

France glanced over at England's tea. "It might be difficult, but I don't think you should move in too quickly. _Amérique _is young. He doesn't exactly understand the ways of the world, and I don't believe he yet understands the ways of love. He needs time to grow, still. You need to stay by his side during this time, guiding him in the right path. Show him kindness and compassion and a friendly sort of love."

England frowned. "How much compassion?"

"As much as you can." And, just to add it in there for his own personal gain, France said, "To me, as well."

"From me?"

"Well, who else would I be talking about? Yes, I'd like for you to show compassion to me as well as _Amérique._"

England rolled his eyes and stood from his seat. "If you want compassion, rent _Bambi._ Don't ask _me_ to show you any such thing as compassion. I never have and I never will." He gave a resigned sigh. "But, to America...yes. Yes, I will show compassion and kindness and all that...sort of thing." He rubbed at his temples. "I don't know how I'm even getting myself into this."

"Because you love-"

"It was a rhetorical statement, France. You should learn not to answer to everything that everyone says." He snorted, snatching up his jacket from the chair at which he was sitting. "How long do you suppose I'll have to wait?"

France smiled. "Not long. I think _Amérique _has some sort of feelings for you." He didn't mention that America had called him asking for the exact same advice (which France had given to him). No, he wanted them to discover more about their love. Waiting sometimes helped love grow, and France knew it would grow for these two.

It was pretty obvious that they wouldn't be falling out of love anytime soon. All they had to do was wait for the golden opportunity.


	25. Let's Go Swimming

**Genre: Humor**

**Rating: PG**

**Summary: America (hypothetically) rented out a beach house and wonders if he could (hypothetically) teach England how to swim.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

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"So Russia told me that Prussia told him that Spain told him that France told him that you couldn't swim," America suddenly said one day, glancing up from the book he was reading.

England glared. "What were you doing talking to Russia? He hates you. And vice versa."

"Yeah, I know." America smirked. "He was telling me that he wanted to drown you."

The island nation raised an eyebrow at this. He couldn't think of what he possibly did to upset Russia so much to make the large country wish to _drown_ him. Of course, maybe it was that one time when the World Meeting was being held at Russia's place and England became drunk off of vodka. America _still_ refused to tell him exactly what events took place that night. All he knew was that Russia was frowning the next morning and sent them off in a hurry.

Still, that was a while ago. Russia sure knew how to hold a grudge.

"Alright, so I don't know how to swim." England shrugged. "Big bloody deal. It's not as if I'll ever go swimming."

America glanced down at his book, finishing the sentence he was on, before saying, "England, you're a pirate!"

"Was," England corrected. "I _was_ a pirate. I gave that up too long ago to even remember."

America pouted. "If you don't learn how to swim, Russia might drown you!"

"I'm not all that terrified of Russia, actually," England responded, sipping at his tea without much worry. "He makes many empty threats to people. Besides, he knows he can't possibly mess with me without one of my allies coming to help. That and the fact that Russia and I _are_ allies, and drowning me would result in war, obviously, so it doesn't matter all too much what Russia says."

It was silent for a minute and England looked up to see America pouting. "I still think you should learn how to swim."

"And I think you should get back to reading," England said, then realized how ridiculous his statement sounded. "Wait, why are you reading, anyway?"

That seemed to do the trick in getting America off topic. "To improve my mind," he responded with a wink.

England stared at him, narrowing his eyes. "Really?"

"Yep!"

"Well, then, love...I believe you'll need more books." And he stood from his seat on the couch, running his fingers through his hair and sighing. "And please leave me alone about swimming. I don't want to learn, America. I can't swim and I don't ever want to try."

America frowned at the insult, but then decided just to brush it off as another one of England's 'grumpy moods'. "Well, why not? I think everyone needs to learn how to swim! What if your plane crashes one day and you have two swim to the safety of an island? What if your home floods and you have to swim against the current? What if your totally awesome and heroic boyfriend wants to take you to the beach and surf with you?"

England smirked. "We're speaking hypothetically, correct?"

"Yeah. Hypothetically speaking, if I were to take you to the beach, it would be awesome if you knew how to swim. Otherwise, the hypothetical money I spent on renting a beach house would be useless, since you'd just sit around the entire time and mope about how we need to get back to work or something like that."

"Hm." England rubbed at his chin. "And, hypothetically speaking, what would you do if I said no?"

America grinned. "I'd probably carry you into a pool myself. Throw you in a little kiddie pool and force you to stay there until you could swim good and well."

"And what if I punch you in the face?"

"Please." America scoffed, rolling his eyes and smiling. "Like you could ever hurt me. Your punches may connect, babe, but they don't have any sort of force in them. Besides, you love me too much to ever truly harm me, dontcha?"

"Well, I won't deny that." England sat back on the couch, resting his head on America's shoulder. "Did you really rent a beach house for us?"

America nodded cheerfully. "Yup! It was pretty expensive, too, but I used my hard-earned money for the two of us to spend a relaxing week out on the beach. I used to have a house up there, but I sold it when I was kinda busy and neglectful and we were in a recession. But I never got to invite you out there, so I wanted to rent it out and-"

"Wait." England sat up, blinking in surprise. "It's the same one?"

"Yep!"

"How the bloody hell did you manage that?"

The taller nation laughed nervously. "Took a lot of persuasion," he said. "The new owners were kinda worried that I might steal it back or something. I had to talk with them everyday and sign this paper-thingy that said I wouldn't take it from them. Or stick gum on the ceiling. They said it was a pain in the ass getting that off."

England sighed. "Only you, America," he murmured, leaning back down again. "Okay, I guess it wouldn't hurt to try swimming a little bit. Just in a few feet of water, though. Only enough so I know how to get back to you if the tide carries me out to far." He glared at America. "And if you duck me under the water yourself, I will make it my personal goal to make sure you never sleep again."

America didn't seem too put off by England's threats. "You mean it? You'll swim for me?"

"Yes, yes, why not?" England smirked as America hugged him. "It wouldn't hurt to try, I guess."


	26. Tracking Device

**Genre: Humor**

**Rating: PG**

**Summary: Spying is a bit strange, so America decides to give in to Canada's wish to go home. Only, of course, if he can use a tracking device to keep tabs on England's whereabouts.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

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"America, I don't believe this is what normal people are supposed to do to figure out if the one they love loves them back," Canada glumly stated, sitting in a McDonald's booth and watching as America stared out of the window intently.

His brother seemed to ignore him, as per usual. "He's at the tea shop," the superpower muttered, quickly taking out a pocket mirror and making sure his hair was still slicked back. It was, fortunately for him, although Nantucket was rather noticeable. "And that's right across the street, so I can make sure he isn't going on a date with anyone else."

Canada smiled fondly. His brother truly was in love with England. It was ridiculous, really, the length he was going through simply to be certain that England was single, but Canada wasn't going to deny him this. If he wanted to make a fool out of himself by stalking the elder nation, he could go right on ahead. Besides, it wasn't as if being a fool was anything new for America. "What will you do if he _is_ going on a date with someone?" Canada asked, sipping at his fountain drink that America actually bought for him (perhaps love made America kind).

America pulled out some binoculars, giving Canada half of a shrug. "Dunno yet. I'll probably just beat up whoever is dating him and then steal him all for myself."

That was to be expected. Canada didn't know why he had even asked. "You do realize that's illegal."

"I'll make it legal." When America glanced up from his 'spying', he blushed a little at the stupidity of his own sentence. "Well, uh...never mind. It doesn't count when I steal England. We're not humans and that rule only applies to humans."

Canada sighed. "America, can't you just _ask_ England if he's single or not? The worst he could do is to tell you about some significant other. Besides, it's a lot better than going around stalking him, eh?"

"'Eh' my ass," America responded with a snort. "Here, if you're so worried about getting caught, I'll just stick a tracking device on him and we'll keep an eye on him that way."

"Somehow, I think that's probably even worse." Canada shuddered to even imagine watching videos of his father-figure doing certain things that weren't meant for the eyes of the young. Though he and America could hardly be considered 'young' anymore. "Just...just _ask_, please?"

"Nope!" America grinned. "This is a lot more fun! Besides, if he turns out to be single, I can take him on dates to all the places that he goes to today."

Of course, that meant Canada and America followed him around that entire day, weaving in and out of alleyways and hiding behind random people to make sure England didn't ever notice them.

"This is stupid," Canada finally hissed as they ducked behind a row of books in the library. "America, if England ever finds out that you stalk him, he's going to be really angry!"

"He'll understand that I'm simply doing it out of love."

"Is that how you define love these days?" Canada crossed his arms over his chest, giving a small pout (though his had nothing on America's). "America, my feet hurt and I really want pancakes. Can we go home, please?"

America sighed, looking over at Canada. "Well...sure."

The northern country mentally cheered, but froze when America pulled something out of his bag. "Just lemme go stick this tracking device on him."

"Wait, don't-" It appeared that America was deaf to Canada's sudden alarm, for he just stood and strode over to England, plastering a wide grin on his face and somehow managing to clear away all signs of suspicious intentions.

"Hey, England!"

England looked up, a bit shocked, and Canada resisted the urge to face-palm. This wasn't going to go well.

"A-America? What are you doing here?" England asked, closing the book he had been flipping through. "I wasn't aware you came to the library."

"Well, I usually don't, but I saw you walk in here from across the street-"

"Across the street as in the dress shop?" England deadpanned, his eyes narrowing.

America froze, realizing his mistake, but was quickly able to recover. "Oh, yeah, I had met up with, uh, Canada, you know, my sister, and we were just searching for a dress."

"Oh." England nodded. "Well, alright. How is she doing, by the way?"

Canada gaped at the two countries. Seriously? He glanced down and felt his chest. He didn't _think_ he was a girl. He vaguely wondered if there was something England wasn't telling him or if he was simply pretending to remember a country called Canada. _Probably the latter,_ the young man thought bitterly, huffing and leaning back against the shelf he was behind.

"She's cool," America responded, sounding quite relieved England believed him on that. "Um, but I ran over here 'cause I wanted to give you something."

"Really? What?"

And that's when America pulled the tracking device from his pocket. It was now somehow hooked to a Velcro strap, and Canada felt amazed that America was able to hook the two things together in such a short amount of time. "Ta-da!" he exclaimed, earning himself a glare from a passing librarian. "Oh. I mean, ta-da!" he whispered this, then grabbed England's hand. "It's a bracelet! I made it for you."

"That's, er, very nice, America, but...wait." England watched curiously as America wrapped the strap around England's wrist. "Isn't that a...?"

"A bracelet? Yes. It is." He grinned. "Well, since that's all finished, I should be o-"

England rolled his eyes. "America, this is a tracking device." Canada resisted the urge to snicker. At least England's intelligence didn't fail him this time around. "What are you doing, going about putting a tracking device on me? I'm not some sort of wild animal." He took it off again, placing it back in America's hand. "I'm not quite sure what sort of game you're playing, but I don't wish to be a part of it."

America blinked, not quite sure what to do now. "I'm, uh...I'm playing the game of...of l-love!" he stammered, blushing furiously. "T-to make sure you're, uh...uh, single. C-Canada told me to ask you straight out, but I didn't want to be...to be rejected, so I...yeah." He cleared his throat.

England stared at him for a second before grabbing the bracelet right back from America. "I suppose, then, that you'll just have to see how single I am." He leaned forward and began whispering. Canada strained to hear, but caught the words, 'find me tonight, America, with the tracking-' before he realized that he really didn't want to hear anymore.

He escaped the sudden awkwardness of the library quite easily, wondering how on earth America's ideas always seemed to turn out okay.

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**And we're done here. Thanks for following/favoriting/reviewing/whatever! Be sure to check out my other stories! :D**


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